


Statecraft

by leftfoottrapped (miikkaa_xx)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/leftfoottrapped
Summary: Historical AU. The last thing Chen expects is to become crown prince Tao’s personal advisor but politics are a dangerous game and Tao will need all the help he can get.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [chenpionships 2k16 ficfest](http://chenpionships.livejournal.com/). thank you to [jesse](https://airboatnecromancer.tumblr.com/) for the beta work.
> 
>  **warnings:** language, violence, explicit sex which includes: rimming, d/s undertones, possessiveness, and blatant bastardization of chinese history

**-**

**III.**

The war between Wei and Shu lasts five years before Shu finally surrenders, opening up the gates of Chengdu after a siege that lasted six months. Once news comes to the north of the final victory, the court of Luoyang is in a bustle to prepare for the arrival of their conquering war prince and his troops.

Meanwhile, Jongdae polishes one of the statues in the main temple while yawning. In hindsight, he should’ve enjoyed those last moments of peace more.

The journey from Chengdu, through the mountains, and over the long plains of the Wei territory all the way north to Luoyang takes less than a month. Mid-winter, they arrive in the streets of the city - the infantry with stained and cracked armor, cavalry caked in mud and snow, wagons empty of provisions dragged back home to be taken apart for the lumber.

Jongdae only catches sight of them from the third floor balcony of the court manor, leaning his arms against the railing to peer down below where the courtyard gates open and a dozen horses trot through - the crown prince and his personal guard - while the rest of the army marches around the manor to the barracks.

Even after five years of warfare and covered in general filthiness with a stench that reaches upwards even to Jongdae, he can’t help but admire the way the crown prince sits high atop his horse, back straight and shoulders set, voice clear through the cheers of the household and the rush of nobility into the courtyard to congratulate his excursion.

It’s the second time he’s seen the prince in his life and Jongdae has to say not much has changed. Zitao might have aged since they met five years ago but it’s only made him more handsome with high cheeks and a defined jawline, a gaze that naturally makes him seem like he is looking down his nose in sheer arrogance. It’s what a crown prince _should_ look like - all regality and confidence.

If Zitao could manage princedom was another matter entirely, Jongdae thinks to himself before heading back inside the manor.

-

In the evening, there is a feast for all the nobility, courtesy of the emperor and empress for the safe and successful return of their sole heir. As part of the entertainment, Jongdae sings a few hymns of praise to the gods of Earth, of Fire, and of Movement before the guests begin to eat. He wonders dimly if Zitao remembers him - the singer he imprisoned from one of the mountain towns in Shu territory and sent back to Luoyang with the rest of the hostages as prisoners of war.

Five years of conquering Shu territory piece by piece meant that Zitao had sent back more than a handful of important Shu nobility to be kept alive as political hostages. Once the war was over, the Wei court could use the nobles’ lives as leverage over the Shu court when discussing peace treaties. Jongdae was rather useless in that regard - being the _cousin_ of the truly important nobility within the Shu court - but he volunteered himself as an exceptional singer so instead of getting executed, he found himself as part-time court entertainer to live in the main temple as the temple-keeper’s assistant for the last five years.

It’s not exactly where Jongdae would _like_ to be in his life, but polishing statues is better than dead so he keeps his complaints to himself. Eventually, he figured the war would end and he’d be able to travel back to Chengdu to check-in with the emperor’s court and find a wealthy patron to fund his singing. And now that Zitao is here, seated next to his mother and draped in auspicious red silk with yellow embroidery, cleaned up of the filth of war to spend his days as a diplomatic representative of his parents, it means _yes_ , the war is truly, finally over.

-

Post-war life in the Luoyang court doesn’t concern Jongdae - but he keeps an eye out anyway, needs to know what’s going on if he’s going to be travelling soon.

The emperor and empress welcome Zitao back with open arms, as do the nobility, but Zitao himself seems less than pleased at being bundled up in silk and thrown into the politics of court. Jongdae remembers the easy, casual way Zitao spoke to his soldiers, firing off orders with clear authority and an expectation that he would be served. He’s always been blunt and direct - important if one was to be commanding an army - but it makes him stick out terribly in court life.

When the nobility and advisors wander into the temple to pray for auspiciousness and good fortune, they gossip too. And Jongdae, well - it isn’t his fault that no one thinks the assistant sweeping the floor is worth worrying about. If Jongdae overhears some gossip here and there, it’s obviously due to the devotees’ lack of discretion.

In a week, Jongdae surmises that first, messages of peace talks have been sent between Shu and Wei, where the now ex-emperor of Shu would be attending with his personal advisor to discuss the terms of the treatise. And second, that the emperor and empress are seriously considering sending Zitao as their representative, which has the royal advisors in fits trying to convince them to be brought along with Zitao. He’s inexperienced, not to mention too blunt, too direct - he’d offend both the Shu court _and_ the Wu court who are hosting the talks.

Politics is the realm of half-truths and verbal cannibalism and even Jongdae could tell Zitao is like a lamb going out to slaughter, having grown up more as a clear-minded warlord rather than the charming, manipulative noble that his parents seem to believe he is. Still, the royal advisors complain instead of trying to train Zitao - no one wants to risk exposing their positions or lies by taking the prince into their confidence.

Mostly, Jongdae finds himself bored with the whispers of betrayal and sabotage that begin to trickle in as the days pass. If the royal advisors really thought Zitao’s parents were unfit to rule and actually went through with overthrowing them to put Zitao’s cousin in his place, all the better for Jongdae to disappear amidst the political turmoil. As long as he can find a way to eke out a living in this temple until then, he’s fine.

Then two and a half weeks after Zitao comes back to Luoyang, a royal messenger arrives at the temple steps saying, ‘the crown prince summons you to the main court,’ and Jongdae has the suspicious feeling that his plans just got shot out of the water.

-

Zitao is dressed in gold silk that brings out the bronze of his skin as he lounges on a few pillows next to his father, the emperor. The royal advisors and nobles are all kneeling on either side of their emperor, glancing at each other and shifting restlessly, knowing this was an official summon, but for who?

Jongdae doesn’t want to disappoint but his simple pale blue robe befitting of temple service isn’t very impressive. He had at least washed his hands and feet before coming, finding himself kneeling on the hard stone of the palace floor, glancing up through his lashes as both emperor and crown prince gaze down at him. Perhaps they had found out he was eavesdropping in the temple and needed him to confirm - which he would; Jongdae wasn’t above selling out the royal advisors to gain possible favour and patronage.

‘Emperor,’ he says, listening to whisper of voices ripple over the people gathered there to watch. ‘Crown prince.’

‘Rise,’ says the emperor, a crease in his brow when Jongdae looks at him. ‘Are you aware of the end of the war?’

‘Yes.’ Jongdae slides his gaze over to Zitao, who tips his head in acknowledgement, still splayed on his cushions.

‘Then you must know your former homeland, the land of Shu, has lost the war to the Wei.’

Jongdae is silent.

‘Peace treaties are to be discussed in Jianye. The Wu court have maintained neutrality all through this war and have offered themselves as hosts for both Shu and Wei.’ The emperor fiddles with his sleeve, seemingly sighing in resignation before continuing: ‘Zitao will go as the diplomatic representative for Wei, and you will accompany him as his personal advisor.’

A beat later and there’s _chaos_. The royal advisors erupting in fits, their voices clamoring over each other in alarm - _who the hell was this kid? Born in enemy territory? Should be executed by now! Please, emperor, one of us - !_ \- and Zitao is hiding a grin behind his mouth as he watches Jongdae with bright eyes, a clear challenge for him to refuse the crown prince.

The emperor silences them with an outstretched hand, expression pinched. ‘Do you accept?’

The illusion of choice is laughable - no one challenges an emperor’s decree. ‘Yes, emperor.’

‘Then you will be escorted to the manor to live in one of Zitao’s rooms, informing him of policy before your trip next week.’

Jongdae glances at Zitao, feels something resembling irritation when he sees Zitao is biting back his laughter, and bows before leaving. So much for a peaceful existence selling himself out.

-

‘Did you see their faces?’ Zitao laughs again, a swirl of silk in Jongdae’s new room, inspecting Jongdae’s grand lack of personal belongings except for a few changes of clothes and some paper and ink to write down hymns or songs should he need to perform. ‘They kept yelling to execute you as if that would convince me to take one of them along.’

Jongdae is sitting on a cushion at the low table, chin propped up by his hand, as he watches Zitao stride the length of his room and back again, vibrating with delight at seemingly outsmarting his royal advisors.

‘Do you even know who I am?’ Jongdae asks incredulously.

Zitao pauses, looks at him. ‘Obviously. The singer that lives in the main temple.’

‘My name is Jongdae,’ he offers, wondering more and more how Zitao managed to pull this off with his father’s permission.

‘Oh, you mean _that_ stuff,’ replies Zitao, finally settling down on a cushion across from Jongdae. ‘You are related to the Jin clan that advises the Shu emperor - their cousin, right? We met five years ago in Hanzhong.’ He looks at the wood of the table, fingers tracing invisible maps. ‘I remember because we were following the Hanshui river then - winter was due to come soon and I had sent some soldiers to hunt game. They came back to tell me there was a town up ahead, so we took it.’ Pausing, Zitao looks at Jongdae for a second. ‘My soldiers said you talked too much.’

Jongdae stares back, a bit surprised. ‘You have a good memory.’

Zitao smiles, preens a little. ‘I know.’

‘Course you do,’ he snorts before shaking his head. ‘What is your plan here?’

‘To go to Jianye.’

It takes a moment for Jongdae to realize Zitao is serious. ‘With a _singer_ as your political advisor?’

Zitao makes a face - nose scrunched up and mouth pursed. ‘I have to go to Jianye no matter what according to my mother and father, so I asked to at least be able to pick my advisor. You’re the only one from Shu that isn’t a political hostage, so I chose you to teach me whatever Shu things I need to know before making a treaty.’

‘And the thirty or so political advisors that have travelled for years being diplomats for your court didn’t make the cut?’

‘I don’t trust them.’

Jongdae makes a confused noise. ‘And you trust me?’

Zitao shrugs. ‘No, but what can _you_ do?’ Jongdae wasn’t a threat - and Zitao probably meant it physically. Even if Jongdae took Zitao by surprise, Zitao was raised as a warlord and could probably break Jongdae’s bones four different ways before he could do anything. ‘Anyway, the other advisors are always whispering and doing deals without anyone knowing, I can never tell what they’re up to, and - ’ He cuts himself off, shakes his head. ‘You just have to tell me anything important that you know about the Shu, and I’ll manage on my own.’

‘Have you ever been a diplomat before?’

He hesitates. ‘No, but - ’

‘No, then,’ cuts off Jongdae, nodding to himself. ‘You have no idea how court works.’

The statement seems to offend, has Zitao’s mouth tightening. ‘I’ve been raised in court all my life, I know how a court works.’

‘You can’t walk in like the army commander and expect everyone to listen to you.’

‘Of course not.’ Drawing back, Zitao’s shoulders tense up, his brows drawing together. ‘I need to have a discussion and make deals with the Shu emperor.’

‘You don’t even know how to get your own advisors to agree with you,’ says Jongdae, feeling a need to push, just to see how Zitao would react. ‘How will you convince the enemy to sit down with you?’

‘What do you know?’ Zitao snaps, frown marring his mouth. ‘You just sing for the court.’

‘By convincing people they need me to sing in their court. I sell my services - poetry, singing, entertainment - by being persuasive.’ He hesitates for a moment before pressing on. ‘I know a lot more about politics and people than a prince who only learned how to give orders.’

That’s apparently enough for today. Zitao stands up, scowling, and strides out of Jongdae’s room in a flourish of silk and the lingering scent of sandalwood. Jongdae wonders if he’ll come back tomorrow.

-

There’s a week left before they must head out with a train of personal guards, packs of food, and all of Zitao’s things for an extended stay at the Wu court. The packing is done steadily over the days, and Jongdae is hustled by Zitao’s staff here and there to make sure he doesn’t look like the third-rate noble that he is in comparison to the prince when they arrive.

In the bustle of preparation, Jongdae visits Zitao’s rooms at least once a day and the conversation inevitably ends with Zitao huffing in irritation, gesturing at a servant to kick out Jongdae for the rest of the day.

‘You _need_ to learn how to doubletalk, Zitao,’ snaps Jongdae on the third last day before they have to leave. ‘They _will_ try to trick you.’

‘I know how to take care of myself,’ says Zitao, scowling. ‘If I can win a war, I can win an argument.’

Jongdae throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘That’s not the same thing!’

‘Why do you even care?’ Zitao paces around the room while Jongdae remains seated on the cushions beside the low table with a list of tasks written out, starting with ‘manners’ and ending with ‘deception’. Needless to say, Jongdae doesn’t think they’ve even made it to the first task. ‘You’re Shu nobility anyway.’

Jongdae sighs, propping his chin on his hand, elbow on the table, as he looks around the opulently furnished room, with its wall hangings and soft screens, gleaming polished floor covered by cushions and chaises to lounge upon. Clearly a room made to entertain close friends just next door to Zitao’s personal bedroom. ‘You’re wrong; I’m not a noble.’

‘My scribes have checked your bloodline,’ says Zitao, collapsing on a chaise in the corner of the room, bottom lip jutting out petulantly. ‘You’re going to trick _me_ into giving up my victory in the peace treaty discussions.’

‘You just _now_ came up with this possibility?’ Jongdae gawks. ‘Four days _later_?’

Zitao glares at him. ‘Well? Am I right?’

He pauses, purses his mouth. ‘I considered it, but it wouldn’t matter. You’d just start another war and conquer Shu again. Peaceful coexistence is a lot more appealing when a singer needs to travel.’

‘So you’re going to hand over your emperor to me just to travel freely?’

Jongdae frowns. ‘When you put it like that, I sound like a traitorous spy.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Zitao’s expression is curious, peering at him from across the room. ‘I mean - you’re working against them when you work with me. You’re betraying what you know about them to help me win.’

‘I see it more as damage control,’ Jongdae replies airily, sidestepping the query entirely. ‘Get the best deal for both sides and not have to worry about conflict for the foreseeable future.’

Zitao doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, shaking his head to himself. ‘You’re strange.’

‘I’m opportunistic,’ he corrects. ‘Which - you will have to learn if you want to _win_ anything.’

The reminder has Zitao flopping back against the chaise, not even looking at the other anymore. ‘If you’re so good at that,’ he gestures through the air, ‘doublespeak thing, can’t you use it on me?’

Jongdae leans back on his hands. ‘You want me to convince you that learning the art of diplomacy is a good idea before heading to a diplomatic meeting?’

‘You _know_ what I meant.’

‘Right.’ Sighing, he glances back at the list written out, figures it’s trash anyway. Zitao obviously favoured practical application. ‘I suppose it’s to be expected that a boy trained as a soldier wouldn’t have any interest in the finer arts of the court.’

The jab has Zitao’s mouth twitch. Ah.

‘Of course not,’ continues Jongdae, straightening up. ‘Children need to focus on what they enjoy, princes included.’ He takes the list, folds it carefully once, then twice. ‘And no one expects you to know all this, so for now, stick with your war games.’ Tucking the paper into his sleeve, he stands up, straightens his robes, turning to leave. ‘We’ll end it for today. I won’t bother you tomorrow.’

Jongdae reaches the door, sliding it open, when Zitao speaks up, tone accusatory: ‘You don’t think I can do it.’

With his back to Zitao, Jongdae smiles to himself. ‘Now when did I say that?’

He steps out and slides the door shut behind him.

-

It takes an entire day for Zitao to soothe his wounded ego, which is far faster than Jongdae expects. He spends the day unbothered by getting a list of the political officials that would be involved in the actual discussions of the treaty and then an extensive report on the war and its casualties, as well as the landscape of the farmlands and townspeople. It wouldn’t do to incite a rebellion only months after being conquered.

The only thing more annoying than trying to get through Zitao’s stubbornness is the waves of people that now try to talk to him. The advisors that once gossiped in the temple while Jongdae polished the wooden statues now crowd around him with helpful advice on how to ease their prince and make sure to not offend anyone.

While Jongdae appreciates the extra information that filters through - especially concerning political relations within the court - he doesn’t feel like navigating through their special brand of bullshit as if they weren’t eyeing the Wu family to replace Zitao’s bloodline on the throne.

For now, he takes advantage of his rooms and tells the servants to let no one in to read over the reports he’s requested.

This works until Zitao sweeps in after Jongdae’s eaten dinner. ‘I’m here.’

Jongdae puts down his tea cup. ‘You’re here.’

Zitao’s mouth is pressed in a thin line, holding himself straight-backed with his robes tucked neatly as if he had just gotten dressed. ‘I heard you requested reports on the army.’

He nods slowly, then takes pity and gestures to the seat across his low table. While his room is missing all the wall hangings and paper screens in the more opulent parts of the manor, he at least has amassed a collection of comfortable pillows for himself to set around his singular low table. Immediately, Zitao sits down, still stiff and watching him intently.

Jongdae sighs. ‘It wasn’t to find out if you suck at being a soldier - I just need to know which parts of the Shu territory are the most ravaged.’

‘Oh.’ Zitao seems to deflate at that, shoulders relaxing, but mouth still pressed tight. ‘We focused heavily on the eastern side, if that helps.’

‘Yes, it does,’ he replies, sliding his fingers along the paper, before finally putting the report down on the table to give his full attention to the prince. ‘So, you’re here.’

He shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, avoiding Jongdae’s gaze. ‘Yesterday - I mean - I guess…’

Jongdae very pointedly makes an effort not to laugh and nods instead. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

Zitao jerks his head in surprise, looking up at him. ‘What - now?’

‘Why not?’

Brows drawing together, he hesitates for a beat before saying, ‘I should - for yesterday - ’

‘Apologize?’ Jongdae dismisses the word with a wave of his hand. ‘Lesson one - not all things must be said out loud to be understood. You came, willingly, and I accept.’

‘That’s…’ He trails off before shrugging. ‘Okay. Teach me then.’

‘Finally,’ says Jongdae and begins.

-

**II.**

The prince and his retinue leave on an auspicious day, to the cheers of the townspeople and the nobles. Zitao is seated regally upon his steed, smiling wide and happy at the attention, while his personal guard clear the path to make way for him. Behind Zitao is Jongdae, devoid of expression while he tries to adjust his body to being on a horse again. He hopes the impression he gives is one of supreme control and not the fact that he was trying not to whine while his legs burned with the effort of bracing himself on a trotting horse.

They travel along the rolling plains of the Wei territory, making easy progress as the horses take them through farmlands and iced-over streams. Jongdae wishes he was in the wagon instead, seated amongst the provisions of rice and wheat and dried fruits, as well as the gifts Jongdae had requested for each of the high nobles they’d be meeting in a few weeks.

Luckily, the sunlight in mid-winter is minimal and Jongdae doesn’t have to stay on his horse for more than a few hours. He limps towards the fire pit for food while Zitao’s soldiers put up his tent and their own. The few riders that had been sent ahead to hunt for game return with a few rabbits while the rice cooks over the fire pit.

Zitao is clearly at home in this environment - chatting happily with his personal guard, murmuring to the horses while feeding them dried fruit as reward, asking for details on the travel and how much distance they had covered in the day. He finally settles down when the guard offers him food, grinning across the fire at Jongdae. ‘It was a good ride wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ replies Jongdae dryly and buries his face back into his bowl of rice.

He is to share a tent with Zitao for the journey because Zitao wants to absorb all that he can about diplomacy before actually arriving at the court. Jongdae has to admit he’s surprised at Zitao’s dedication and willingness now that he’s gotten over his pride, thinks maybe he’s underestimated the prince for his ignorance.

Of course, being a willing student doesn’t mean that Zitao is any less of a prince - with his arrogance and haughtiness and expectation of obedience. It’s a balance that Jongdae is still trying to work with.

Having Zitao laugh and say, ‘why are you _limping_ like that,’ as Jongdae moves from fire pit to tent is not helping his case.

Jongdae ignores him and enters the tent, finding two flat beds covered in fur pelts, separated by a table in the middle. He takes the obvious smaller bed and flops back on it, trying to give his legs a break. Any peace he thought he could get is interrupted by the tent flap opening to let in Zitao, holding a small clay jar, grinning cheekily down at him. ‘You’re not used to travelling by horse, are you Zhongda-ge?’

‘The last time I was on a horse was five years ago,’ says Jongdae flatly, eyeing the clay jar. ‘What is that?’

‘A balm to soothe hurting muscles. So you can stop limping.’ Zitao waits patiently as Jongdae finally sits up and takes the jar, popping open the top to smell it. ‘It’s perfumed,’ adds Zitao, ‘because it’s for me.’

‘Can’t have the rich smelling bad,’ mutters Jongdae to himself before nodding. ‘Thank you, prince.’

Zitao beams - handsome face crinkling up in a childlike grin - and moves to his own bed, shedding his ceremonial armor carefully, hanging it up piece by piece on a wooden stand in the corner of the tent. ‘You can ride with me tomorrow if you want.’

Toeing off his boots, Jongdae snorts. ‘No thanks.’

‘How about the wagon?’ There’s a brief moment where Jongdae honestly considers it, but Zitao starts laughing. ‘My personal advisor sitting next to the horse treats; no one would ever take you seriously.’

‘Please shut up,’ says Jongdae, shedding his pants next. The fur pelt tickles his bare skin, trying to keep it warm despite the chill while he dips his fingers into the jar, smoothing the lotion along the inside of his reddened thighs.

‘Y’know, you could be executed for the way you talk to me.’

‘Maybe that’s what I’m going for.’

‘Never,’ declares Zitao, dressed down in a thick tunic and pants now. ‘I understand you now. At least a little.’

‘Okay,’ he hums, half-listening.

‘You don’t like people,’ he says, triumphant. ‘But you like me.’

Pausing, Jongdae looks up, incredulous. ‘What?’

Zitao is still smiling, a little mischievous now. ‘You talk to a lot of people in court, but you’re always alone. The only person you willingly spend time with is me.’

‘I’m your _advisor_.’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m not right.’

Jongdae briefly contemplates throwing the jar at Zitao’s face but decides being able to walk tomorrow was worth more. ‘Think what you like.’

Zitao watches him for a second before tipping his head to the side. ‘Have you ever liked anyone?’

Exasperated, the other shrugs. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Do you have high standards or something,’ he says.

‘Go to bed,’ snaps Jongdae instead. ‘ _Please_.’

Zitao sits on his bed, looking almost confused. ‘Fine, but blow out the lamp before you sleep. We’re marching at dawn.’

-

The journey is not hard - they cross Wei by the southeast, avoiding the mountain range entirely, and continue along a trail next to the Shahe river for a while so that the horses always have water. The snowfall becomes thicker as they near the Wu territory border, slowing down their progress, but they encounter no storms and Zitao and his retinue easily adapt, warming their stomachs with their freshly-hunted game as well as being dressed in furs draped along their clothes and thick leather gloves and boots.

The two week journey extends to two and a half, and Jongdae’s muscles scream in protest every night when they set up camp. He keeps the balm close, enduring Zitao’s laughs at how fragile his advisor seems. The lessons go on - Jongdae quizzes him on names and bloodlines and court relations, asks him to have practice conversations between them so he can find the subtext, the insults and disparages hidden between the words, and trains him to remember manners expected in each differing court.

In return, Zitao is a dutiful student, and does exceed Jongdae’s admittedly very low expectations. He supposes that if Zitao can memorize an entire compendium of battle tactics, then names and manners shouldn’t be a problem. His intuition is also quick to react to any remarks, even if he can’t pinpoint what was being said or how to reply without offending. Zitao is quick and intelligent and eager - and Jongdae can only hope they can have more time before Zitao is thrown to the wolves.

Of course, when Jongdae is done for the evening, Zitao reverts back to being playful and childlike, teasing and mischievous the way he is with his personal guard so that his entire retinue is utterly charmed by him. Zitao attracts people naturally, easily, with that rare blend of innocence and awareness - able to take care of himself and others like anyone else could expect, but choosing to be sweet, to be warm so that his presence soothes like honey down the throat.

‘You’re charming,’ Jongdae says one night while reading one of the many reports he’s brought along.

Zitao is in the middle of polishing his sword, his expression serene as he gets caught up in the repetitive movements. At the words, he looks up, brows furrowed. ‘Is that supposed to sound like an insult?’

‘I mean,’ says Jongdae, ‘that when people like you, they agree with you easier.’

‘So I should make friends with the emperor of Shu, even though I’ve just conquered him.’

The sarcasm has Jongdae rolling his eyes. ‘Get the Wu emperor on your side.’

‘He’s neutral,’ says Zitao, mouth flattening as he tries to figure out what Jongdae is implying. Jongdae gives him the time, looks back at the report in his hands, counting the many smaller landowners under the Shu emperor’s reign. They’d have to be appeased lest the Wei court wanted a rebellion on their hands.

Zitao’s voice breaks through Jongdae’s thoughts: ‘So you’re saying that if it at least _looks_ like the Wu emperor agrees with me by befriending him, then the Shu emperor will feel pressured to agree too.’

Jongdae looks up, smiles. ‘Yes. Good.’

A shy little grin curves along Zitao’s mouth as he ducks his head to gasp in the small bout of praise; he’s painfully easy to read and Jongdae can’t help but be endeared by it.

Half an hour later, Zitao is done with cleaning his weapons, hanging them up carefully next to his ceremonial armour. ‘We should sleep now.’

Jongdae shakes his head, spreading the numerous papers along the table. ‘I want to keep reading for a little bit.’

‘No,’ says Zitao.

Looking up in surprise, he blinks. ‘What?’

‘As your prince, I command you to sleep now,’ he declares, haughty. Usually Zitao throws around his title as a petulant reply to what Jongdae asks of him - _why should I bow when I greet them if I’m a prince?_ \- but this time he seems serious.

‘I’ll blow the lamp out once I’m done,’ says Jongdae slowly. ‘I’ve done it before.’

Zitao frowns. ‘Obey me.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Ge!’

Incredulous, Jongdae peers up at him, waiting for an explanation. ‘What do you want, prince?’

‘You sleep too late,’ he says, flopping onto his bed with a sigh. ‘And you’re still hurting all day from riding. We’re only halfway there - at this rate, you’ll burn yourself out before we even reach Jianye.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Well, I should be allowed to take care of my advisor.’

Oh. Jongdae doesn’t have a reply to that, finds himself staring at Zitao for a beat too long. ‘I see.’

‘’I see’?’ Zitao snorts. ‘You’d tell me saying something like that is _ineloquent_.’

‘I wasn’t aware,’ he says slowly, ‘that you felt like… taking _care_ of me, since I’m older than you.’ Zitao is peering at him, his eyes glittering with curiosity, and Jongdae tries not to meet the gaze, instead busying himself by organizing his reports back into a neat pile. ‘I’ll sleep then. Do you want to sing me a lullaby too?’

The gaze recedes, hides behind Zitao’s bright grin as he plays along. ‘You’ll have to tell me which one.’

Jongdae rolls his eyes. ‘Your favourite.’

He should’ve expected Zitao to break into song but finds himself laughing out loud even as he throws a cushion at the other’s face.

-

They cross the border into Wu territory with no trouble - Zitao is an imposing figure in his armour, the slice of his sword glinting on his hip as he tugs on the handle just a bit, just for impression. The border patrol let them go with bows and apologies, watching in awe as the crown prince’s retinue marches along, dressed in their furs and leather with hard faces from the mid-winter travel they’ve endured.

The climate changes, becomes more temperate the closer they get to Jianye. Jongdae is surprised to find himself sweating from _heat_ at one point, undoing his fur cloak to let the cool wind soothe him. Ahead, Zitao’s personal guard don’t seem to react, neither does Zitao. Jongdae supposes it’s obvious that he’s a court-raised noble instead of soldier in comparison, wonders what kind of impression they’ll make once they arrive. Crown prince Zitao and his elite soldiers, with a short, soft-handed advisor lingering at the side.

Only three or four days of travel remain. Zitao doesn’t show his anxiety at the idea of finally meeting the nobles outside of battle, but Jongdae watches him spend his time sparring with his soldiers to burn off the excess energy, have him concentrate on something else that isn’t implication and deception.

Back in the tent, Jongdae chats with him about general things - the journey, the food, the landscape, finds Zitao dipping into his childhood and upbringing to answer, clearly relieved to not be talking about politics for the time being.

‘Mostly, I would sneak away with Shixun,’ he says with a nostalgic smile. ‘He’d tell me where all the best places to drink were in town - he’s really good at eavesdropping the soldiers and staff - and I’d sneak us out, making him take me there. I always thought we were never caught, but once mama - _mother_ brought it up a couple months later. Apparently, the court has eyes everywhere.’

‘Shixun - your cousin.’

‘Shixun, of the Wu family on mother’s side.’ Zitao lounges on his bed, gaze drifting from where Jongdae is seated at the table to the lamp that hung near the top of the tent. ‘I haven’t seen him since the war started.’

‘That’s five long years.’

‘The family moved out of Luoyang when I went off to conquer Shu.’ He sighs to himself. ‘I should invite them back to the capital - they wouldn’t refuse me now after a peace treaty has been set.’

Jongdae hums. ‘Five years outside of the court’s eyes.’

Zitao turns onto his side, looking at him. ‘Shixun isn’t a threat.’

The truth sits heavy on Jongdae’s tongue, but he swallows it down, smiles placidly. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘What about you? Where are _you_ from?’

‘What about me?’ Jongdae shrugs. ‘I travel around, entertaining nobles. When one court gets tired of me, I just find another one.’

‘When did you start then? Singing?’

‘My mother would have you believe I was born singing instead of crying,’ he says, can’t help the way his voice softens at the thought of her. ‘I started when I was a kid, with temple hymns. The temple-keepers liked me, had me practice so I could lead the prayer. Eventually, I grew up and decided to make a living off it.’ He opens his arms, gestures all around at the tent. ‘And here I am.’

‘You’re lying,’ says Zitao abruptly.

Jongdae clenches his jaw to keep a straight face, surprise making his brain go blank for a second. ‘About what?’

Zitao shakes his head. ‘I don’t know which part, but you’re lying.’

Ah - intuition. Jongdae should’ve expected this. He couldn’t teach Zitao to be sensitive to how others spoke and not have it turn against him. ‘Maybe the real story is a lot more boring.’

He huffs. ‘You don’t have to lie to me.’

Jongdae can’t help but smile a little at that - Zitao, offering himself up as confessional to Jongdae like they’re _friends_ , not forced into this situation by circumstance. It makes his stumbling attempts to care for Jongdae a lot more endearing; Zitao cautiously trying for a mutual understanding instead of being pushed away because he’s Jongdae’s prince, Jongdae’s student.

For a moment, Jongdae realizes that after spending almost a month with Zitao, he can add himself to the long list of people who’ve been _charmed_ by Zitao.

‘Then,’ starts Jongdae, ‘don’t fall asleep for the real story.’

‘I’ll pinch my side to stay awake,’ replies Zitao brightly - still a brat.

‘Anyway,’ he says loudly, ignoring the other. ‘My elder brother is the one related to the Jin clan that advises the Shu emperor. I’m my father’s bastard child, raised in temples singing for coin. Once my brother decided to become a soldier, I was taken in as a secondary heir and sang for the courts my father visited as a noble.’

Zitao is silent for a moment. ‘Your mother?’

Here, Jongdae smiles, pleased and proud. ‘Lives with my grandmother in a new house I bought for them.’

Suddenly, Zitao sits up, eyes bright. ‘I didn’t - did I?’

‘No, they live south, near the coast where it’s warmer. Old bones and all that.’ There’s a beat before Jongdae laughs hollowly, ‘if you had killed my mother, prince, you wouldn’t be alive right now.’

Zitao seems to take the threat to heart, settling back into the furs of his bed, expression crumpled in thought. ‘Did I kill your brother?’

‘No idea,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But…’ Exhaling slowly, Zitao stares up at the ceiling of the tent. ‘You’re scary, ge.’

‘I’m half your size and can’t fight, and _I’m_ scary.’

Zitao shakes his head. ‘That’s not it.’ For a long moment, Jongdae expects him to keep going but Zitao is sunk deep into his own thoughts. Finally, Zitao rolls onto his side, shifting to pull a fur pelt over himself as he turns his back to Jongdae. ‘Sleep well, ge.’

It’s strange, Jongdae decides - this feeling of rejection, how it tastes sour at the back of his throat. He ignores it, lets the ugly, truthful parts of him retreat back under his skin, fitting comfortably under the non-threatening guise Jongdae wears. This is what he gets, he thinks, for _liking_ Zitao.

-

Jianye blooms like a lotus in the valley, split in half by the Yangtze river. They cross the last plateau by midday, sun sweet and warm on their skins as the snow crunches under the horse hooves. Blanketed in a sheet of white frost, the city seems more tranquil than Jongdae expects. He’s never been this far east, and tries not to look like a gaping fool when Zitao and his soldiers seem completely unfazed when they approach the city wall.

‘Open the gates,’ one of the soldiers shouts at Jianye’s guards. ‘The crown prince of Wei has arrived.’

Clearly they’ve been expected. The city walls crack open with a groan, revealing the inner town, buildings, markets, stalls, and a bustle of people that is a sharp change from the long, snow-streaked plains they’ve crossed for the last two weeks. Behind the gate is a man dressed in the Wu court colours - a deep green highlighted by dark blue - on a horse, announcing himself as their escort to the manor. Zitao nods at the man to lead, bringing his horse forward, Jongdae following, the wagon behind them.

The smell of food gets to Jongdae faster than any of the sights. He imagines fresh fish from the Yangtze and hot spiced soup instead of the half-burnt rice and thick wheat gruel, tries not to salivate as they navigate through the narrow streets to get to the manor that looms over the roofs of the town.

The manor has its own gates and guards, who swing open the doors once they see the escort. The Wu court manor is the same in size as the other grand courts Jongdae has visited - only the colours and furnishings differ. Where Zitao favours his family colours of black and gold, Jongdae can see the seaside colours of green and blue, the dragon of Wu stitched carefully over silk wall hangings as they are walked from the front gate to their rooms to wash up before greeting the emperor.

The wagon is unpacked by servants and left in Jongdae’s room under Zitao’s orders - beautiful clothes wrapped in protective cloth against any damage as well as five gifts in elaborately carved cases. He sets the cases out carefully on the low table, then pulls out two sets of robes. Both are black silk with gold edged embroidery along the hem and neckline, the smaller sized one for Jongdae as he sets out Zitao’s outfit on the table next to the gifts.

With impeccable timing, Zitao strides into Jongdae’s room, stripped of his armour and dressed down. ‘I’m nervous,’ he blurts, folding onto a cushion next to the table. ‘Are you?’

Jongdae fiddles with the smooth silk of his robe that he’s still holding, decides truth isn’t the answer. ‘I’m fine, just need to organize a few things here. First impressions are important.’ He looks up, confident of this at least: ‘You know how to handle yourself, prince. You’ll be fine today.’

Zitao ducks his head, pleased, and seems to straighten up a little bit, taking his clothes from the table. ‘I’ll go to the baths then and get ready.’

‘Do that,’ he says. ‘I’ll catch up in a bit.’

Before Zitao leaves, he glances behind his shoulder at Jongdae. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, ge?’

Jongdae slides on a smile, goes for arrogance. ‘Of course - this isn’t my first court I’ve had to charm.’

Once Zitao has disappeared, Jongdae lets out a breath, exhaling loudly. All throughout the trip he had tried to figure out a way to avoid a direct confrontation with the Shu emperor, but now he was in the manor and it was too late.

The Shu emperor would no doubt recognize him, and his advisor probably would too, and only the gods knew what the consequences would be, but Zitao didn’t need to know. This was on Jongdae and he’d bear the brunt of it - no use in setting himself up for another rejection.

-

On the lounge chaise sit the emperor and empress of Wu, both of them upright and at attention to greet their guests that arrive.

Zitao looks handsome as he walks down the aisle to the raised dais, gesturing with a flick of his hand for Jongdae and two servants to follow. Jongdae can’t help but glance at the gestures and other nobles seated on either side of the room, watching with curious eyes as Zitao introduces himself with a bow.

‘Praise to the gods of Flight and of Water,’ he says, honouring the patron gods of the Wu. ‘I am the crown prince of Wei, having come to represent my kingdom in these peace talks.’

‘Welcome, Prince Zitao,’ says the emperor, peering curiously at them from atop his chaise. ‘The one with you?’

‘My personal advisor, lord,’ says Zitao, gesturing for Jongdae to step forward. Jongdae obeys, bows. ‘Zhongda of Jin.’

‘Of _Jin_?’ It’s the empress this time, hiding her smile behind her blue silk sleeve. ‘Your family sure gets around.’

Jongdae winces, knowing exactly who she was talking about. ‘Distant relations.’

‘We bring gifts,’ interjects Zitao smoothly, nodding his head to the servants holding the two cases. Two of the Wu servants take the cases and bring it up to the dais. For Emperor Yifan is a sword with an ornate handle, for Empress Yixing are hair ornaments carved of precious jewels - a jade comb, ruby pins, pearl drops.

‘Thank you,’ says Yifan, passing off the gifts for servants to take to their chambers. ‘We will feast together tonight, until then please make yourself at home.’

‘Has the Shu emperor arrived?’ Zitao asks, glancing around.

‘His hawk arrived this morning - he will be here in two days. The mountains are hard to cross in the winter, delaying them far longer than he would’ve liked.’

‘Till tonight then,’ nods Zitao, turning around and flicking his fingers as an order for Jongdae to follow.

They walk steadily, an easy pace, dignified and confident, right out of the room, listening to the doors slide shut behind them. Once Zitao rounds the corner, he turns on his heel and faces Jongdae with a grin. ‘Was I good?’

Jongdae almost runs right into him. ‘What - yes. Yes, you were very… stately.’

Zitao’s brows furrow for a second - ‘is that a compliment?’

‘It’s code for you were very cocky and princely,’ he concedes, unable to stop himself from grinning back at Zitao, a little spike of pride in his chest for how wonderfully Zitao held himself despite being nervous. ‘Keep it up and we’ll make you a noble yet.’

He pouts - ‘I _am_ a noble!’ - but his eyes are crinkling, pleased, turning back around and walking away with an obvious pep that has Jongdae muffling his laughter.

-

The feast is elaborate, but Jongdae eats quickly to focus on watching the emperor and empress. Zitao is being his usual enthused self, but his replies to Yifan’s questions are delayed, obviously trying to think over his answers before he speaks. He has a pink flush on his cheeks from the booze, looking utterly attractive in his black and gold, offsetting Yifan who is dressed in soft celadon, his expression curious and attentive while Zitao talks.

The empress keeps mostly to herself, talks sweetly to whoever speaks to her first but doesn’t initiate much conversation. Only one woman seems intent on trying to continue a conversation with Yixing. Where Yixing complements her husband by wearing robes coloured a sapphire blue, the woman is dressed in an eye-catching red, almost like she wants to declare herself to the guests as Yifan’s mistress.

‘Why do we have three gifts for the Wu court?’ Zitao had asked before they had even left Luoyang.

‘Because the Wu emperor has a consort,’ says Jongdae. ‘Everyone knows about her because the Wu emperor has no shame in flaunting her around along with his wife. If we don’t give her a gift, he’ll think you don’t see her as important as he does. Oh, and that you don’t condone having consorts when you’re married.’

‘Well, not _public_ consorts,’ he mumbles, then nods. ‘Fine. Who is she anyway?’

Kim Junmyeon - also known as Jin Junmian, distant relation.

Jongdae has to say that at least she’s as beautiful as his cousins who live with Emperor Shu, but he knows better than try to talk to her himself in public. It might incite Yifan’s wrath against Jongdae or convince Yixing that the Jin clan had gathered in the Wu court to plot her husband’s downfall.

The feast is more for reconnaissance anyway, and Jongdae is happy indulging in the food and sips of booze, thankful that Zitao seems to have hit it off with Yifan, and interested in the relationship between Yixing and Junmyeon if they’re not rivals vying for power.

Afterwards, Yifan invites Zitao to take a walk through the gardens. Jongdae sends a servant with Junmyeon’s gift after them before settling in his room.

A few hours later, Zitao comes into Jongdae’s room, buzzing with an excited energy. ‘He was really happy about the gift,’ he says, pacing the room. ‘And mostly we just talked about the trip - he’s never seen mountains in the winter, and I asked about sea travel. Which - we need to remember that, it’s very important.’

‘Sea travel?’ echoes Jongdae.

‘Yeah, obviously,’ says Zitao, pausing and looking at him, before realizing that no, Jongdae doesn’t get it. ‘For the soldiers,’ he explains. ‘Shu is surrounded by mountains, but mountains can be hiked. Wei doesn’t know how to navigate ships - so if my army is going to march over Wu, they’ll need training to strike along the vulnerable coast. Seizing ports and all that.’

‘You… really are a commander,’ says Jongdae, impressed.

‘I _can_ do things without your supervision,’ he says, rolling his eyes.

‘Who knew.’

‘Ge!’ Zitao frowns, shoulders drawn tight in insult. Ah. He had hit a nerve.

He hurriedly backtracks, voice is a little louder than normal when he replies: ‘Sorry - I just forget. You did well, prince.’

‘Yeah?’ The irritation drains out of Zitao immediately, has him standing with his hands on his hips. ‘Yifan-ge is kind, he didn’t say anything that you would say - ’ He waves a hand through the air. ‘ - like he didn’t imply anything. He was just… nice. I like him.’

‘That usually means someone else is pulling the strings,’ says Jongdae, nodding to himself.

‘You mean Yifan-ge has someone scary like you behind him?’

Jongdae briefly wonders if he should explain that Zitao could probably break his neck four different ways, so really, who was the scary one between them. ‘It’s probably either Yixing or Junmyeon - so we’ll have to find out who has the real power.’

‘What if it’s both?’

Jongdae cringes. ‘That just means double the work. Let’s hope not.’

‘Now what?’

‘Befriend Yifan- _ge_ ,’ he drawls, looking up at Zitao. ‘Already so close, aren’t you?’ His mouth twists up wryly, keeps that spike of jealousy behind his teeth. ‘When the Shu emperor arrives is when we’ll have trouble, so take advantage of making allies.’

For a long moment, Zitao only watches him. ‘I thought you wanted me to get close with him.’

Jongdae clenches his jaw but the smile doesn’t waver. ‘Keep at it.’

‘Okay,’ he says, voice soft. ‘And you?’

‘I’ll keep watching.’

‘Watching,’ Zitao murmurs to himself before he bids Jongdae goodnight.

Jongdae sighs, leaning back on his hands, and restrains himself from calling a servant for a bottle of wine.

-

Two days is not nearly enough time for Jongdae to prepare his nerves. He watches from the balcony as the Shu retinue arrive in the main courtyard, escorted to another wing adjacent to the rooms given to Wei. The house colours of red and silver gleam on the Shu emperor’s ceremonial armour, noticeable even from a distance, and Jongdae ignores how his stomach drops in anticipation. It’s time.

He goes back to his room to pull out the last two gifts. For a brief moment, Jongdae wonders where Zitao has vanished before he remembers the way Zitao has gotten… _close_ with Yifan. Jongdae knows better than to be jealous, especially when he was the one that sent Zitao in the emperor’s direction.

Still, the past two days had been filled with too many instances of Zitao letting loose his own touchy-feely nature, bumping shoulders against Yifan, tipping his mouth close to Yifan’s ear to whisper, fingers whispering over the silk of Yifan’s sleeve to get his attention. All in plain view of Jongdae, who schools his face to be impassive, ignoring how the snake of possessive envy coils tightly in his gut.

It’s deliberate, Jongdae knows. Zitao is mischievous and playful with Yixing and Junmyeon at mealtimes, does not press close to them when they walk him around the manor or the gardens. He charms them by just being _himself_ \- a careful attentiveness and a soft innocence that brings down another’s guard. The conversations deliberately avoid politics - at least until the Shu emperor arrives - and Jongdae uses the forced casualness to ask about their life, their hobbies, their family. All these small details that Jongdae stores in case he has to play on their emotions.

Still, Jongdae doesn’t bother talking to Yifan if he can help it. Yixing is soft but intuitive and Junmyeon has a sharp tongue that keeps Jongdae on his toes - they’re both enough for him. Anyway, there’s no guarantee he won’t simply clock Yifan’s face in the next time he smiles and takes Zitao’s hand when they greet each other, so it isn’t worth taking the chance.

Now that the Shu retinue is here, Jongdae lays out an outline of the peace treaty on the table and reviews it to keep his mind off the eventual clusterfuck that is going to happen at the feast in a few hours.

It’s half an hour later that Zitao enters his room, sliding the door shut quietly behind him and sitting across from Jongdae at the table. His mouth is pressed tight, like he’s trying not to speak, and Jongdae relents. ‘What is it, Prince?’

Exhaling, Zitao leans forward, ‘It’s going to start tonight, isn’t it? The game?’

‘The Shu emperor is a lot sharper than Yifan,’ he says. ‘So you’ll have to be careful around him.’

Zitao looks thoughtful, lashes cast low as he thinks. ‘Doesn’t it get tiring,’ he starts slowly, ‘to always have to watch what you’re doing?’

Jongdae softens, watching him. ‘Need a break?’

‘It hasn’t even been three full days,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Of course not.’

‘It’s okay.’ Sitting there, it’s easy to see the nervousness in the hunch of Zitao’s shoulders, the way he avoids Jongdae’s gaze. ‘It’s hard - that’s why only a few people play this game.’

‘You’re good at it though,’ says Zitao, glancing up at him. ‘I - ’ His voice cuts off as cheeks flush pink in embarrassment.

While Jongdae’s not sure where Zitao’s going with this conversation, he decides it doesn’t really matter - not when the main point was that Zitao was folding under his own imagined failures. ‘You’re not alone,’ says Jongdae. ‘I’m here - and I’m going to make sure we do well. I’m a subject of the Wei court - and _you_ , the crown prince - so you know you can use me if you need me.’

‘Need you…?’ He’s peering up at Jongdae, eyes wide and soft. ‘That’s unfair.’

‘You’re going to have to explain,’ admits Jongdae, wondering how someone so easy to read like Zitao still manages to confound him so easily.

‘It’s - you - you’ve been teaching me for a month now,’ he starts, brow furrowed and words rushed. ‘I want to - I want to be able to negotiate without you watching me. And get things done by myself.’

Ah. Even if Jongdae sits absolutely still, he can feel himself retreating into his own skin, easily imagining the distance between him and Zitao yawn open canyon-like with no bridge to cross. He slides on a smile for Zitao and nods: ‘Of course, Prince. I know you can take care of things on your own. I’ll focus on my end for now.’

Zitao’s expression is unreadable, at least for the moment, because Jongdae’s brain is too busy berating himself for hovering and having another rejection thrown at his face. At least Zitao is always direct - doesn’t fool Jongdae into thinking they have anything more than a professional closeness.

‘Have I been doing well with Yifan-ge?’ asks Zitao suddenly.

The words are like a stab, twisting ugly and painful in Jongdae’s stomach, but he doesn’t flinch. ‘He likes you a lot - keep it up.’

Zitao’s gaze is intense, the way he gets when he practices his sword forms, when he spars with one of his soldiers. ‘How close should I be to him?’

Vaguely, Jongdae understands Zitao is challenging him for whatever reason, but he knows better than to press. ‘I’ll leave that up to you.’

‘You really don’t have an opinion, Zhongda-ge?’

Jongdae has a lot more than opinions, but it’s getting difficult holding onto this mask of amicable indifference towards Zitao. ‘I’m not the one charming him, so I wouldn’t know.’ He stands up, smoothing out his robes, ‘Anyway, we should probably get ready for the feast tonight for when we meet the Shu emperor,’ and beats a strategic retreat to the baths, leaving Zitao - and his questions - behind.

-

Jongdae truly underestimated the clusterfuck of meeting the Shu emperor.

He and Zitao arrive before the emperor does - seating themselves on one side of the long table, with Yifan and Yixing at the head. Zitao chats up Yifan easily while Junmyeon takes a seat beside Jongdae to keep him company. Across from Zitao and Jongdae are two empty seats - for the Shu emperor and his advisor, while the rest of the nobles and advisors of the Wu court swarm the seats all along the table.

Zitao looks especially beautiful in his gold robes, small precious stones lining the hem of his sleeve and neck in an elaborate, hand-stitched pattern, and Jongdae can’t blame the way everyone’s eyes stray towards Zitao at least once. He’s donned black again - the first button of the robe at the base of his neck replaced by a fat ruby. It got the point across.

Finally, the emperor of Shu walks in, looking almost exactly the same as he did eight years ago. His advisor follows - seemingly ageless too. Both are dressed in blood red embroidered with clear crystals that glittered under the lamplight and quickly become the centre of attention as they stride with the confidence that only nobility seem to possess.

With nothing but a bow of their heads and pretty smiles, both emperor and advisor seat themselves across from Zitao and Jongdae, and Jongdae briefly imagines he’s safe and unrecognized.

Until, of course, the emperor finally looks at Jongdae and blinks once, twice.

‘What the fuck?’

Everyone’s heads swing towards the emperor, realizing after a moment that he’s staring at Jongdae, and Jongdae tries not to cringe.

‘Hello, Luhan,’ he manages then nods towards the advisor. ‘Hey, jiejie.’

Minseok smiles brightly at him, clearly not as affronted as the emperor that her half-cousin is sitting on the other side of the table.

‘You little _shit_ ,’ starts Luhan, dropping all pretense. ‘Is this where you went? To help the enemy?’

‘It’s a long story,’ starts Jongdae, already rubbing his face with his hand, feeling a headache coming on. ‘Listen - it’s not what you think - ’

Except Luhan is already standing up and before anyone can react he’s stomped around to the other side of the table to slam his slippered foot into Jongdae’s sternum, sending him crashing against the floor.

The chaos is instantaneous. Wheezing, Jongdae can make out Minseok still sitting calmly while Zitao shouts and restrains Luhan, Yifan and Yixing also standing up to tell Luhan to calm down, all the while Luhan is struggling to kick Jongdae’s face in. Even Junmyeon is leaning over him, face worried, asking if he was okay, could he breathe -

Still winded, Jongdae just stares up at the ceiling and thinks _I love politics_.

-

A few minutes of yelling later, Luhan has stormed out with Minseok following. Yixing and Yifan have also vanished, and Junmyeon helps Jongdae to his feet before Zitao sweeps Jongdae up between his arms like Jongdae’s a bride. ‘I’ll take him back - can you send the food to our rooms?’

‘Sure,’ acquiesces Junmyeon with one last expression of concern before Jongdae is carried out of the room altogether.

‘He just kicked me,’ says Jongdae mildly, more surprised at Zitao’s strength than anything else that’s happened today. ‘I can still walk.’

‘Shut up, ge,’ says Zitao, utterly serious.

Jongdae shuts up.

There’s a strange feeling of domesticity when Zitao carefully lays him down on a bed that Jongdae recognizes is in Zitao’s room, not his. ‘This isn’t - ’ starts Jongdae.

‘I know,’ interrupts Zitao. ‘Just - stay there.’ He moves away, opening the door for the servants that come with the requested food. They place it carefully over the table in Zitao’s room and exit with a bow and whisper, leaving them alone again.

Sitting up, Jongdae looks up at the wall hangings depicting flying fish and cranes standing in water. The furniture is more elaborately carved and the bed comes with multiple fur pelts in welcome of Northeners. Definitely an upgrade from Jongdae’s plain room - which surprises him considering how much time Zitao spent with him there instead of inviting Jongdae here amidst the luxury.

‘Can I get up now, Prince?’ Jongdae asks, more joking than anything else. He feels the humour drain away when Zitao looks at with that grave expression from earlier.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ It’s a fair question and Jongdae mulls over his answer, watching as Zitao organizes the various dishes and bowls on the table, delicately pouring out wine and setting aside the chopsticks on either end of the table so they could eat across from each other.

Eventually, he settles for the obvious answer: ‘Even if I did, what difference would it have made?’

Zitao stands up, turning sharply on his heel to look down at him, holding himself with the natural imperiousness of his station. ‘I could have protected you. I could have gone to the feast alone. I could have broken the news to the emperor without him trying to break your ribs.’

He has a point and Jongdae shrugs, sighs. ‘I expected some yelling maybe - I thought since Luhan’s in public and at an imperial function, he wouldn’t actually do something drastic.’ He presses his fingers against his chest, feeling the lingering soreness. ‘I underestimated how pissed off he’d get.’

‘Aren’t you a bastard?’ Zitao is incredulous. ‘How do you know him so well that he’d try to kill you in public?’

Jongdae avoids Zitao’s gaze entirely, focusing on the food sitting just a few feet from him ‘Maybe we should eat first.’

‘Answer your lord,’ he snaps.

‘I’m… close with his personal advisor,’ says Jongdae slowly. ‘The real Jin clan - the clan Minseok-jie hails from - is the most powerful under the emperor himself. My father had some deluded idea that he could drop me off in Chengdu for a couple years to befriend Minseok-jie and my other half-cousins and rise up in the ranks.’ He scratches his cheek before finally admitting, ‘Minseok-jie, the crown prince - well, now Emperor Luhan, and I are childhood friends?’

Zitao gapes at him. ‘You’re not joking.’

‘Nope.’

Closing his eyes, Zitao stands unnervingly still, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair. ‘He’s going to kill you.’

‘That seems excessive, don’t you think?’

‘He tried to kill you in front of the entire court, Zhongda-ge.’

‘Well.’ Jongdae stands up, padding over to the table where the food was set up. ‘I’m sure some wise man once said to take life day by day anyway.’

‘This isn’t funny,’ says Zitao, exasperated as he follows Jongdae to the table, folding onto the cushion and staring at him. ‘How can you not worry?’

Jongdae shakes his head, picking up the soup bowl and peering over the rim at Zitao. ‘I’ve gotten this far on my own, Prince, so I know how to take care of myself. It’s _my_ life that’s in danger so _you_ don’t have to worry about it.’

That seems like the last straw. Zitao slams his chopsticks down on the table, startling the other. ‘But I _do_ worry!’ His eyes are intense again - and Jongdae can’t meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.

‘The Wei court would send you another advisor immediately,’ says Jongdae, focusing on the food.

‘I don’t fucking _care_ about advisors,’ snaps Zitao. ‘I _care_ about _you_ , ge.’

A frisson of heat slides through Jongdae’s veins at the words, warms him from the inside, but he still refuses to look up. ‘Thank you for the consideration, Prince.’

Making a frustrated noise, Zitao stands up, turning around and pacing the room. ‘We should give them their gifts - but later, when Luhan has calmed down. I can deliver them personally, maybe find out if he really _does_ plan on harming you.’ He’s almost vibrating with excess energy, tense and worried and upset.

‘You don’t have to go that far,’ says Jongdae.

‘Can you - !’ Zitao is glaring at him now, jaw clenched. ‘Can you just shut up?’

Jongdae fills his mouth with crab roe in reply. After a long minute, he hears a very quiet, ‘I should send you back.’

‘Don’t,’ says Jongdae immediately, before he can restrain the panic in his chest. ‘Don’t send me away.’

Running a hand through his hair, Zitao shakes his head. ‘Sorry - I won’t. You’d probably get eaten by wolves on the way back.’

‘Your faith in me is astonishing,’ he says dryly.

Bypassing the table, Zitao strides towards the door of his room, sliding it open. ‘I’m going on a walk - finish eating and make sure to rest.’ There’s a pause before he adds, ‘That’s an order.’

Jongdae doesn’t look over his shoulder to where Zitao is standing. ‘Yes, Prince.’

The door slides shut with a loud clack, signalling he’s alone now. Across the table, Zitao’s food is still untouched and Jongdae tries not to choke on a wave of self-loathing for upsetting the prince so much he’s lost his appetite.

For now, Jongdae eats all that’s been served to him, leaving behind only empty dishes, some sign to Zitao that Jongdae’s ate it all, before he escapes to his own room.

-

In the morning, the servant informs Jongdae that peace treaty discussions will be held in the east wing at mid-day. They bring him breakfast and leave him alone to eat and prepare.

He takes his time to wash and put on his robes, organize his notes in a neat pile bound together with leather string. There’s anticipation but after yesterday, Jongdae knows the worst is over. Luhan knew he was here now and it was too late to do anything but proceed as planned to get the best deal for an extended peace.

Zitao does not visit him, to which Jongdae thinks he deserves. Instead, he writes a letter for the Wei court and goes looking for the stables where the messenger hawks are kept. Only once Jongdae loses track of the hawk’s wings in the distance of the sky does he return to the manor and heads towards the east wing.

The room is modestly sized when compared to the grandiose court where Yifan and Yixing lounge to greet visitors, even the long room where meals are served for all those attending. One of the tables within has a topographical map of the Three Kingdoms upon it, small markers placed for Chengdu, Luoyang, and Jianye. Another table has a tea set and cushions for seating. Junmyeon is there, pouring out a cup for Yifan and herself. She adds to a third cup once she spots Jongdae.

Next to arrive is Zitao, looking more irritated than anything as he sits next to Jongdae. Finally Luhan sweeps in, Minseok following.

‘Zhongda,’ sneers Luhan, sitting across from him, Minseok neatly folding onto her cushion beside him.

‘Lu-ge,’ says Jongdae brightly, grinning wide and white, if only to irk him more.

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Everyone is here,’ interrupts Junmyeon, voice losing the previous politeness and becoming firm, unchallenged. Jongdae slides his gaze over to Yifan but Yifan doesn’t seem to mind his advisor taking point.

A servant is summoned to take away the tea set, another one coming in with two small blades, ink, and a brush placed in the centre between them all. Jongdae takes out the first written document of his pile - the writing short and to the point with space along the side for seals and signatures.

‘The agreement of surrender?’ Junmyeon asks, taking it from him to read it over.

‘To be signed and witnessed,’ he replies. There’s a storm behind Luhan’s gaze that Jongdae deliberately avoids, focusing on Minseok, seemingly perfectly relaxed across the table from him as she takes the document from Junmyeon.

After a few minutes, Minseok nods. ‘This is fine.’

Zitao, quiet and still beside Jongdae, finally moves to take one of the blades on the table. Junmyeon opens the ink pot for Luhan as he drips the brush and writes his name in easy practiced calligraphy. Jongdae glances over at Zitao, not particularly surprised that Zitao has already sliced the pad of his thumb open without a single noise of hurt. The blood beads red and bright, slides down over Zitao’s palm, but Zitao doesn’t seem to care as he waits for Luhan to be done.

Luhan nicks his thumb with the second blade, smears it across the paper. The document slides across the table and Zitao presses his blood first. Jongdae almost wants to flinch but refrains, keeps an eye on Zitao who writes his name in quick efficient strokes.

Yifan goes last as witness and Jongdae can breathe a sigh of relief.

From three kingdoms to two - Shu now to be ruled, as the agreement had put it, by the hand of _the one declared as the emperor of Wei and their successors._

‘Next,’ says Junmyeon, ‘involves the annexation of lands.’

Luhan immediately tenses up but doesn’t say anything.

‘I would like a list of all the nobles and landowners that pay tithe to the Shu court,’ says Jongdae, ‘as they now serve the Wei court.’

‘I would give them to you,’ says Luhan lowly, ‘if I even knew half of them were still alive.’

‘Of course they are,’ says Zitao, feeling challenged. ‘I captured them myself.’

He sneers. ‘I haven’t seen some of them in five years and you expect me to just believe you?’

‘You have no choice.’

It’s the wrong thing to say - Luhan bares his teeth in a snarl, and MInseok intervenes on his behalf: ‘Send us your list of hostages first, along with signatures and a lock of hair as proof of life.’

Zitao stares. ‘That will drag these talks even longer.’

Minseok only smiles coolly. ‘Have somewhere else to be, Prince?’

‘He just wants to get this over with so he can bring his army to Wu’s borders,’ says Luhan.

‘That would be… problematic,’ drawls Junmyeon, glancing over at Zitao.

Zitao flushes, embarrassed. ‘I’ll get proof of life for you.’

‘There we go,’ says Luhan with a pretty smile, eyes still flat and angry. ‘Best to cooperate.’

Jongdae takes pity on him: ‘Then we’ll discuss the new rules and rights of the your nobles and landowners - for one, they will all be stripped of house colours and adhere to the Wei’s gold and black.’

‘My nobles pay tithes directly to _me_ ,’ says Luhan. ‘If you want your money then you should be careful not to piss their family loyalties off.’

‘Of course, which is why you’ll be paying your tithe to the Wei court in installments every four months.’

Junmyeon hides a smile behind her hand while Luhan nearly launches himself across the table to wring Jongdae’s neck. ‘You little shit.’

‘Failure to pay up will result in military control of Chengdu,’ continues Jongdae, ‘and of course military occupation amongst all the commonly used routes through the Shu kingdom - you know how it is, we want to trust you but we need our own guarantee.’

‘You want to drain my coffers dry,’ snarls Luhan. ‘This is supposed to be an annexation, not extortion, Zhongda.’

‘What if the Wei court will take on the expense of its own occupation of Shu,’ he replies calmly. ‘Anyway, _Lu-ge_ , you know me better than that. I’m not interested in extortion. I want _submission_.’

-

The rest of the meeting is simply a loud argument between Luhan and Jongdae as Zitao’s expression gets darker and darker and Minseok seems to be losing her patience. Junmyeon hides her laughter - her neutrality giving her a right to pass judgement like the rest of them are children. Yifan is mostly uncomfortable and calls for a recess three hours later - ‘We’ll continue this tomorrow.’

Jongdae is eating a dried fig in his room, coming down from the high of getting under Luhan’s skin, when Zitao enters unannounced and demands, ‘Let’s go riding for a bit.’

He swallows his bite. ‘Is that an order?’

Zitao considers then nods, disappearing back into the hallway.

The stable provides two horses and recommend a route along the plains that stretch beyond the walls of Jianye. Jongdae stays bundled in his leather and fur even if the weather is more temperate, following Zitao at a brisk trot until they’re outside of the city.

Wu is all gentle curves and mostly flat farmland all covered in a layer of snow largely untouched except for footprints of rabbit and fox. Zitao’s pace has the horses’ hooves kicking up the snow into a mud-stained slush as they ride hard and fast along the Yangtze.

An hour later, Zitao finally slows out to a canter, bringing their steeds near the river where the ice has broken. Jongdae’s legs and back are sore again, and he feels relieved to stand on flat ground now as his horse huffs and goes towards the water. Peering around the horse, he looks at the landscape - so utterly different from the constant mountains, cliffs, ravines that he had seen growing up.

‘I brought a water skin,’ says Zitao, finally breaking the silence. He offers it up, watches as Jongdae drinks. He drinks only after Jongdae is done. ‘There’s no one listening in on us here.’

He looks down and around, finds that the only footsteps on the snow are their own. ‘Afraid of spies?’

‘As you should be,’ says Zitao sharply, like a slap against Jongdae’s cheek. ‘You didn’t even try to play your own game with Luhan. You told him everything we wanted right to his face. You did what I would do, before - ’ He gestures vaguely around himself, as if referring to all of Wu. ‘Before you told me better.’

Amidst the snow-blanketed countryside, where the only sounds are the huffs from the horses and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, Jongdae realizes he could say anything and only Zitao would know. With the isolation creeps that nagging desire to be honest, _exposed_ , but Jongdae doesn’t repeat his mistakes.

‘I gave him ultimatums - he will agree quicker if he feels like we’re giving something up for him when the bargaining comes.’

Zitao doesn’t look convinced but he seems to relent, backing off a step to stare into the horizon where a stretch of woodland begins to creep, the tips of bare tree branches shivering under the cold sun’s glow. ‘You don’t have to tell me everything,’ he says eventually. ‘Just - let me know enough to be prepared.’

‘For another war?’ Jongdae asks.

‘That’ll be in a few years,’ he replies, mouth quirking at the corners. ‘You should be long gone by then.’

And Jongdae hates that. Being under Zitao’s command means that he can be commanded and dismissed at Zitao’s will, with no care as to the fact that he’s started to _enjoy_ staying next to the crown prince. He clicks his jaw shut and nods: ‘as the prince wills it.’

They ride back to the manor in silence.

-

The rest of the week of discussions isn’t better. Jongdae badgers Luhan with more extreme orders, pressuring him, and Minseok protests almost every time at the severity because Luhan seems to focus more restraining himself from clawing off Jongdae’s face with his bare hands.

Junmyeon is always present, but Yifan only attends half the discussions, sending Yixing in his stead while he deals with his own court’s affairs. Yixing is far more diplomatic than Junmyeon’s condescending laughter, diffusing a yelling match between Zitao and Luhan more than once.

When they all haven’t locked themselves away in the conference room, Yifan’s court offers winter hunting in the strip of woodland near the edges of valley to the north of Jianye, or rides along the frozen edges of the Yangtze. The winter solstice approaches closer every passing day and a noticeable bustle begins within the Wu court as plans are brought up and put into motion, weeks of preparation needed for something that would truly dazzle the Shu and Wei guests.

Jongdae avoids the pleasures of going out - finds himself exploring the manor itself far more. Sometimes he ducks out into the town to indulge himself in street food and chatter with the more common folk. It’s easy to feel at home in these smaller buildings - a teahouse,  a restaurant, a temple - and Jongdae fits snugly under his skin of performance, listening and talking with the other patrons.

Most of what he learns is not useful in the realm of the conference room back in the Wu court, but Jongdae picks up some interesting rumours - Yifan and Yixing have not had a child yet because Yifan might be impotent, Yixing originally hailed from the Shu court but was raised as a political hostage within Wu for her entire life, and Junmyeon - well, no one knows where she came from, except that she had arrived at the court a little over a year before the war between Shu and Wei had begun.

His hands are full of threads, looping between his knuckles and tangled amongst each other - everyone’s stories and secrets intertwined and tightly wound, impossible to track the route of one string without catching against a knot. Only Zitao’s thread - a gold shimmer - is clear and untouched, curling around Yifan due to Zitao’s short stint of seduction, but nothing more. Jongdae wants to keep it that way; he wants to keep Zitao away from the worst of royalty, protected from their lack of morality by using whatever power he had as an advisor.

Yet, Zitao seems to have something else in mind.

At dinner - delicious as always, as it has been for their entire stay - Zitao has moved his seat down the table to sit across from Minseok, seemingly abandoning Yifan’s attention entirely.

Minseok is sweet on him - Jongdae knows it’s hard to _not_ be when Zitao is so effortlessly charming. Luhan keeps his hackles down and is distracted by Junmyeon and Jongdae anyway, while Minseok smiles at Zitao’s compliments on her hair ornament - carved from a polished ice-white stone - or his enthusiasm for some of the food he had tasted while campaigning in Shu territory.

‘You’re much more talkative outside of the conferences,’ she says, eyes sharp even if her tone is warm. ‘When will you give poor Jongdae’s voice a break?’

Zitao ducks his head, embarrassed. ‘You’re right, jiejie.’

She doesn’t oppose the term, seems to soften up instead. ‘I suppose you spare Jongdae the part where he yells at Luhan.’

‘He yells first,’ is the immediate petulant reply. Minseok laughs, not bothering to hide it behind her hand, and looks impossibly more attractive as her eyes crinkle up, her cheekbones even more obvious overtop her grin.

Jongdae only pays half attention to what Yifan is saying as he watches from the corner of his eye, unable to stop wondering if this was Zitao’s genuine offer of friendship or something else.

The days pass - the Wei court replies with proof of life and Luhan concedes. Royal bloodlines are retraced and land is divided by family relations - most of the boundaries remain the same, but Zitao had taken his time slaughtering minor nobles, meaning their land had to be seized by Luhan’s court until it could be given out to whoever he felt deserving.

A second letter comes - addressed for Jongdae only. The temple-keeper’s handwriting is neat: she informs him of the comings and goings of the royal advisors back at Wei. Clans that had escaped the border from Zitao’s warring were returning to their old manors, emptying out the main court. Meanwhile, the Wu clan from the east had come back to their old posts in the main court after five long years’ absence. Wu Shixun had grown up in the lost time.

The letter is a warning: _Despite the successful conquest and the promise of peace, the court has been busier than it was during wartime. The advisors believe Prince Zitao’s peace treaty is a lost cause and ready their own plans._

Even a messy coup d’état was still a coup d’état. Jongdae burns the letter and scatters the ash into the snowy courtyard. The secrets lie heavy under his tongue but Jongdae only tightens his jaw whenever he sees Zitao and gives away nothing. This, too, was a protection only Jongdae could give Zitao.

The days only grow shorter as the winter solstice approaches. At the end of each meeting, Jongdae returns to his room with a long list of issues that continue to crop up. The topics and conflicts are inked over and over again on different papers as Jongdae tries to figure out loopholes and concessions that would make Luhan agree. His outlines go far longer than he intends, have him staring at a pile that seems more like an elaborate filibuster than progress.

Zitao seems to leave Jongdae alone more often than not, though Jongdae has no idea where Zitao goes. The workers in the stables mention the prince’s long rides along the edges of the valley, sometimes accompanying Yifan, sometimes Minseok. One day, Zitao sits with Jongdae for hours on end, chatting easy and rhythmic over nothing particular, and Jongdae can’t help but suspect - finds out later from another servant that Yifan had been busy all day with court matters and Minseok could be found in one of the manor libraries for the last few hours.

‘Are you playing a game with them both?’ Jongdae asks one day, idly doodling in the margins of one of his outlines, feeling too tired to deal with the plans at the moment. Across the table, Zitao is polishing his favourite set of daggers, humming songs under his breath as he cleans the blade.

‘Playing a game?’ Zitao looks up at him, confused for a moment. ‘Oh - you mean Minshuo-jie and Yifan-ge?’

‘Yeah.’ Jongdae folds his arms on the table and tucks his face between, resting his chin against the wood of the table. ‘You’ve been obviously spending your time between them.’

Zitao shrugs, going back to his dagger. ‘You mentioned I was charming, and well - if I can befriend Yifan-ge, can’t I do the same with Minshuo-jie?’

‘I’m not stopping you,’ he snorts. ‘Just wondering if it’s a plan.’

‘Not stopping me even if it wasn’t your idea?’ Zitao asks, voice measured out carefully casual.

‘I’m _your_ subject, Prince, not the other way around.’

The answer seems to put Zitao off, has him frowning. ‘You’ve been in charge of this the entire time.’

‘I _advise_ ,’ replies Jongdae patiently. ‘I can’t order.’

‘What if you could?’

The question is sudden, has Jongdae blinking up in surprise at Zitao. ‘What if I could order _you_?’

Zitao’s reply takes a beat too long - ‘yeah’ - as he meets Jongdae’s gaze, and Jongdae feels a weight in the pit of his stomach, his mind suddenly awhirl with all the sharp, bitter feelings he tries to keep to himself.

‘I would…’ starts Jongdae, but his voice is caught in his throat, unable to come forth. If he could order Zitao, if he could _command_ Zitao -

Zitao and his eagerness, his charm, his easiness. Zitao and his stubbornness, his drive, his determination. Zitao and his kindness, his innocence, his generosity. Zitao and his sharpening wits, his quickness to learn, his ever-burgeoning potential to be even greater than anyone could imagine.

Oh - if Jongdae could have that, _keep_ that -

‘I wouldn’t,’ he says loudly, pushing away from the table, unable to look at Zitao. ‘It’s not my place.’ He almost trips on his own robes by standing up so fast, tries to not drown from the sudden tidal wave of possessiveness that hits him. ‘I’m going to the baths.’

‘Ge,’ calls out Zitao, ‘ _ge_!’ but Jongdae is already gone, suffocated by his own want and trying oh-so-helplessly to find air.

-

In hindsight, Jongdae is a fool for thinking he could keep a lid on it for so long. He is constantly around Zitao, constantly seeing him curl into Yifan, chat and befriend him so quickly, watching how he jokes and smiles so sweetly with Minseok - all his deliberate gestures to win them over coupled with his natural appeal and intuition on how to please the other.

It’s too much, has Jongdae curl his fingers under his sleeves so no one can see the jealousy that seeps out of him as Zitao moves from one person to another, easy and friendly with anyone yet always keeping Jongdae at an arm’s length.

Then something happens a few days later - Luhan begins to agree. Albeit, it’s still begrudging and mean, his concessions to the new regulations accompanied by snaps and snide remarks, his insults tracking a bit too close to Jongdae’s bloodline - which Zitao always manages to interrupt loudly with an annoyed scowl - but Jongdae is still surprised at how stubborn, quick-tempered Luhan gives in to the opposition after only a few weeks.

‘All your soldiers - employed _either_ by the Shu court or the minor nobles - have to be uniformed in Wei court colours,’ says Jongdae with an irritated sigh, patience running low for going over this condition for the upteenth time. ‘But the Shu court and all its families and servants and whatever house employees can wear whatever colours they want, _fine_.’

Sitting across from him, Luhan sneers. ‘Any exceptions? Don’t want to suddenly come in saying our horses need to be decorated in red so you can see our cavalry coming from ten li away?’

‘A great idea,’ he says, ‘I’ll add it in under the section called Emperor’s personal amendments.’

‘Ge,’ says Zitao under his breath, and Jongdae reigns himself in, tucking his temper back under his robes.

‘We accept - minus the amendment joke,’ says Minseok, laying a delicate hand on the table. Luhan doesn’t look at her, preferring to scowl at a wall hanging of a dragon.

The quickness has Jongdae blinking fast, can’t hide away his surprise. ‘Just like that?’

Minseok tips her head to the side, like she’s confused. ‘Of course. We retain our house colour identities and you can keep your armed forces to yourself. We’ve already been conquered - the last thing we need is more bloodshed from our armies.’

‘Right.’ Jongdae takes the brush at his side and dips it into the inkwell, writing down the words into his ever-growing draft of a peace treaty.

At his side, Zitao has a small, pleased smile. ‘Thank you, jiejie.’

She smiles back but shakes her head. ‘It’s not over yet - we’ll have to discuss the economic realities of _our_ families holding _your_ soldiers.’

The pressure building up in Jongdae’s skull drowns out his initial suspicion of the exchange between Zitao and Minseok as he launches himself into a new argument about money, which brings Luhan back from his petulant daydreaming to start sniping back at him.

Of course, once the conference is over for the day, Jongdae nurses his headache with tea and snacks, taking a walk along the terrace in the cold winter air to clear his thoughts. Catching a servant passing-by, he asks, ‘Will you summon the crown prince here for me?’

A few minutes later, the servant comes back and informs him politely that ‘the crown prince has gone into town with advisor Minshuo. Shall I pass on your message once he has returned?’

Jongdae tightens his jaw. ‘No, that’s fine - thank you.’

-

And it builds.

It builds in Jongdae - tightening his gut, settling heavily over his chest, occupying his thoughts far more than he can stand.

It - this absolute, burning _betrayal_ over Zitao.

Jongdae lasts for three more conferences with Zitao sitting beside him before he can’t stand it. Can’t _stand_ the way Zitao watches Minseok, how Minseok responds to him with tips of her head and soft eyes, how they are obviously closer than Zitao has let on to Jongdae, close in a way that might be different from Yifan, and Jongdae curses his own jealousy for not watching Yifan closer to confirm.

Three more conferences and Jongdae can’t do it anymore. He leaves the manor entirely right after the conference, buries himself with others’ company until his anger has cooled to a simmer, a temper that he can control. He dines with the townsfolk and returns in the night, flashing his diplomatic seal from the sleeve of his robe when the manor guards try to stop him.

Catching a servant in the halls outside Zitao’s rooms, Jongdae asks, ‘Is the crown prince here?’

The servant shakes their head. ‘Not as of yet.’ Then adds, ‘he might - might be in another’s room.’

Of course. Of fucking course. ‘Tell him to meet me in his room.’

The servant seems to want to spare him retribution for ordering a superior. ‘Ah - even if the prince is resting - ?’ But Jongdae doesn’t care. Not anymore.

He doesn’t spare them a second glance. ‘You heard me.’

Without pause, Jongdae sweeps into Zitao’s room, almost irritated how clean and well-kept it is. Suddenly, Jongdae wants to nitpick every flaw out of Zitao, drag him down from war prince to just a brat, just some pathetic _boy_ , if only to justify this seething _anger_ in Jongdae’s chest.

He paces the room a dozen times - his simmering wrath coming back up to a boil. When Zitao comes, when Zitao finally shows his face, Jongdae will - he’ll -

‘Ge?’

And before Jongdae knows it, Zitao is there - his robes still on but loosened, revealing more throat, more collarbone, more _skin_ than is suddenly acceptable to Jongdae.

‘You - ’ snarls Jongdae, stepping forward.

Immediately, Zitao senses the threat - body tensing, hands falling at his side in preparation. ‘Zhongda-ge?’

‘What the _fuck_ have you been doing?’

The anger is palpable now - thickening the air, making Zitao swallow, not risking taking his eyes off Jongdae. ‘What - What do you mean?’

‘You think I wouldn’t notice,’ Jongdae sneers. ‘I fucking _taught_ you, _showed_ you everything you can do, and you fucking use it with Minseok?’

Zitao sucks in a sharp breath. ‘I haven’t done anything with Minshuo-jie.’

Jongdae’s voice drops low in warning. ‘Do _not_ fuck with me, Zitao.’

There doesn’t seem to be an immediate reply on Zitao’s tongue, has him replying with a quiet, ‘that’s Prince to you.’

‘Prince?’ Turning on his heel, Jongdae paces the room again, trying to gather any amount of words that will relay how much he wants to tear Zitao to pieces. ‘Prince of _what_? Prince of being easy? Selling yourself out? Prince of fucking your way to peace?’

‘What - ’ Zitao sputters. ‘You think I fucked Minshuo-jie for the treaties?’

‘Do you think I don’t fucking notice you getting into her good graces, Zitao?’ he snaps, staring at him incredulously. ‘Luhan doesn’t agree to anything unless forced - and you haven’t exactly put a blade to his neck lately. The only person who can convince him is Minseok - and guess who’s been in her company so often?’

‘You think I’d fuck for peace,’ says Zitao quietly, eyes back to that intensity that unnerves Jongdae. He draws himself up, standing straight, trying to seem passive in the face of the other’s temper but his eyes betray the hurt. ‘Why do you care then? Use whatever works, right.’

‘You fucking _brat_.’ Jongdae knows, he _knows_ , he can’t physically take on Zitao, but the utter want to backhand Zitao’s pretty face is strong. Instead, he roots himself to stand across Zitao, face him dead on, make him understand how much - how much - ‘I showed you how to be better than this, to use your words, your actions, to be _better_ than the _rest_ of them - I thought - I fucking believed you would be _better_ than fucking your way to saving your kingdom.’

The accusation has Zitao’s expression crumpling up, voice raised as he snaps, ‘How can _you_ say that when you’re the always telling me to be _opportunistic_ to get what I want.’

‘Do you see me on my knees to win over Luhan?’ Jongdae can feel his anger recede, making space for the tide of betrayal, disappointment to rise up his throat. ‘Sex isn’t going to work every time - you can’t fuck your way through diplomacy when you’re thirty years older, Zitao. I wanted - I thought - you were going to be so good.’ He runs his hand through his hair, unable to even _look_ at Zitao now. ‘I would teach you everything I know, and you were going to be good, be better than anyone would expect. You - you…’ He can’t even finish, doesn’t think he can confess to the last secret, the fact that by the end of these conferences, there was a chance that Zitao wouldn’t have a court to go home to afterwards, and he had to be _prepared_ , to be _ready_ to fight for it back in more than just martial prowess.

‘Ge,’ says Zitao softly, but Jongdae has lapsed back in silence, unmoving, his eyes flickering over the decor in the room instead of Zitao himself. ‘Ge, I didn’t - not with Yifan-ge, not with Minshuo-jie.’

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t sound like the truth either. Jongdae simply waits, feeling drained and disappointed, wondering if this is what he gets for _wanting_ Zitao and building him up so much in Jongdae’s mind’s eye.

‘ _Ge_ ,’ repeats Zitao, a plea in his voice. He crosses the distance between them, shoulders hunched up and chin tipped down, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller for Jongdae despite the height difference. ‘And even if I did - I wouldn’t - wouldn’t do that for the treaty, I swear.’

Jongdae finally looks up at him, unimpressed. ‘Then what is all this, Zitao?’

Zitao flinches, standing so close, expression soft and vulnerable. ‘I - I wanted - ’ He swallows thickly. ‘I did it all - getting close to them, I mean, being closer than I probably needed to be, I thought maybe - there was a chance - maybe you would _notice_.’

‘Of course I noticed,’ says Jongdae, incredulous.

‘No.’ He shakes his head, makes a frustrated little noise. ‘You - you’re so closed off, I thought - maybe flirting with Yifan-ge or ignoring you for Minshuo-jie would get you to react - but not… not like this.’

Jongdae is missing something, something just on the tip of his tongue; he doesn’t understand why Zitao would bother on being so roundabout just to earn a little extra attention from his advisor, as if Jongdae _wouldn’t_ do it anyway without a single complaint. ‘If you want something, Zitao, say so.’

And that seems like the last straw. Zitao closes his eyes, face flushed in embarrassment at himself. ‘I want you.’

Ah. He bursts into surprised laughter, quiets when Zitao opens his eyes, full of anticipatory terror. ‘You don’t even like me, Zitao.’ Not with the way he keeps Jongdae at arm’s length, becoming easy and soft around everyone else. ‘Don’t I _scare_ you? Aren’t I strange to you? If you want my attention, you only have to ask, after all, I’m _your_ subject, _Prince_.’

The vulnerability over Zitao’s face seems to retreat, slide back under a mask of annoyed impassiveness as his jaw tightens. He lifts his hands, and for a second Jongdae thinks the other is going to hit him, but Zitao only adjusts the loose collar of his robes, folding the silk over the dip of his throat properly. ‘If you don’t want me,’ he says very quietly, ‘then just say it.’

They’ve come this far - Jongdae figures this is the fallout anyway. After this, he can’t greedily stay by Zitao’s side, pretend there isn’t a snake of sheer desire that wants to coil around Zitao, keep him and swallow him whole, not when Zitao seems to play some roundabout game to push at Jongdae’s limits.

‘Of course I do,’ he says finally, looking up at Zitao. ‘Who wouldn’t want you?’

The answer seems to surprise Zitao, has him pull his brows together, blinking fast. ‘You don’t have to lie to spare me - ’

‘I’m not,’ cuts in Jongdae. ‘But I know my place, Prince. So if your grand plan was to make me _jealous_ with your relationships amongst the court, it worked, but I’m not going to overstep my bounds.’

Zitao clenches his jaw, blurts out: ‘I wish you would.’

Jongdae shakes his head, ‘do you even know what you’re asking?’ and moves to step away when Zitao’s hand shoots out, curls tightly around Jongdae’s wrist. ‘What are y - ’

‘ _Please_ , ge,’ begs Zitao, and suddenly his face is too close to Jongdae’s, too open and easy to read with wide eyes and open mouth. ‘Please, I want - I want - ’

The touch on his wrist feels like it’s burning, making his veins ignite, and Jongdae doesn’t know what to do - not when Zitao is so _beautiful_ like this with his pleading - and decides it doesn’t matter anymore.

Zitao’s mouth is soft and open when Jongdae kisses him. He wants to go slow, wants to savour this - because Jongdae might never get this ever again, might never get to _have_ Zitao as entirely as this moment here - but Zitao is folding into him, his hands curling into the front of Jongdae’s robes to press that much closer, making a desperate little noise.

And Jongdae will give - spoil his prince to the best of his ability, _serve_ him as Zitao deserves. He drags his teeth over Zitao’s bottom lip, biting just hard enough for Zitao to mewl, and brings his hands up to cup the other’s jaw, steady Zitao so Jongdae can kiss him deeper, wetter.

Shuddering, Zitao opens up for him, allows for Jongdae to take. His fingers are still caught up in the silk of Jongdae’s robes, and Jongdae can feel how the grip tightens as he sucks on Zitao’s tongue. There can’t be anything better than this, he thinks - having Zitao give himself up, wanting nothing more than for Jongdae to kiss the breath out of him, let him feel how Zitao simply _melts_ under Jongdae’s desire.

He pulls away a beat later and the sight is glorious - Zitao’s mouth shining wet and flushed pink, eyes half-lidded as he searches for why they’ve stopped. ‘Ge,’ he says softly, and inclines his head forward, wanting more. Helpless, Jongdae goes, kissing him again, letting Zitao try to drag him closer, try to make sure Jongdae can’t pull away this time.

In between the third and fourth kiss, Zitao is nudging at Jongdae, using his height and strength to have Jongdae stepping backwards. Zitao doesn’t let Jongdae fall, not until Jongdae reaches the bed, and suddenly, he’s being overwhelmed by Zitao’s weight, collapsing onto his back against the softness of the blankets as Zitao nuzzles into his cheek, kiss broken if only so Zitao can pepper more along Jongdae’s jaw.

Jongdae catches his mouth again, unbothered being trapped under Zitao, knowing full well that Zitao would move away if asked. For now, Jongdae soaks in Zitao’s desperation, his childlike greediness, how he refuses to let go of Jongdae, doesn’t want to take the risk of losing Jongdae altogether.

This time Zitao pulls away first, his hands trembling just a little as he traces his fingers over the collar of Jongdae’s robes, eyes darting up to meet Jongdae’s gaze in askance. ‘Can I - please - I - ’

‘Tell me what you want,’ says Jongdae, his hands that still hold Zitao’s jaw ghosting along his throat, wanting to remember how warm Zitao’s skin felt, the strength underneath the softness, how it all melted away for Jongdae, like Jongdae had the command over Zitao for once.

Instead of replying, Zitao shakes his head, seemingly distressed now. ‘Please - please tell me - what _you_ want - I - let me do it for you.’

‘Princes don’t serve their advisors,’ murmurs Jongdae, his arms dropping back onto the bed.

But Zitao is stubborn. ‘Can’t they just once?’

The words taste sour in Jongdae’s mouth, but he refuses to show it: ‘Just this once.’

Perhaps he should’ve known Zitao would be like this in bed - all greedy touches and long kisses, his hands careful as he pulls Jongdae’s robes apart. There is something reverent in how Zitao kneels over him, eyes dark as he undresses Jongdae underneath him. Undoes the buttons without pulling, ghosts his fingers over the embroidery of the collar before peeling it back, slides his hands along Jongdae’s waist before pushing the silk of the robes off him.

Jongdae helps - sits up to slide the sleeves off his arms, raises his hips so Zitao can tug the rest of the robes out of the way entirely, toss it onto the floor. Zitao kisses him, nudges at his waist so that Jongdae will move backwards, get onto the bed entirely until his head is sinking into the soft cushions at the end of the bed.

Pulling away, Zitao drags his eyes over Jongdae who is now fully naked. ‘Ge,’ he murmurs, almost to himself, but Jongdae isn’t shy. If Zitao wants, this is all Jongdae has to offer.

‘What is it?’

Zitao looks up, meets Jongdae’s gaze. ‘You’re… small.’

Jongdae raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. ‘Are we talking about my dick or my height?’

He shakes his head, expression completely serious still. ‘Not like that.’ Hesitantly, he places his palm on Jongdae’s sternum then slides upwards until his fingers spread wide, rest gently over Jongdae’s throat. ‘It’d be so… easy to hurt you.’ He draws his hand away, curls over to kiss Jongdae’s neck where he had just touched. ‘I don’t want you to be hurt.’

Humming, Jongdae pets through Zitao’s hair. ‘You’re a war-prince, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ says Zitao against the other’s throat. ‘No one will touch you.’

‘Except you?’ he humours.

But Zitao doesn’t reply - occupied with kissing his way across Jongdae’s collarbone, hands warm and calloused as they drag over the skin of his waist. Jongdae lets himself relax into the bed, even allows himself to moan when Zitao’s teeth catch over his throat where he’s sensitive. If Zitao is intent on actually having sex, he takes eons to get there - seems to want to take his fill of putting his mouth all over Jongdae’s skin, slow and lingering, something worshipful in how he kisses, touches, all the while listening to the sounds Jongdae lets out.

Jongdae can’t help it - not when Zitao licks over his chest, tugs at a nipple with his teeth, or when his fingers dip low, tugging on the trail of hair between navel to cock. He tries not to embarrass himself, manages to keep himself limited to breathless ‘ _fuck_ ’s and low moans, unused to this level of attention. He wants to flip them over, do the exact same to Zitao, watch and listen as Zitao mewls and falls apart with his fingers clawing into his pillows. But this is Zitao’s moment, Zitao’s want - and Jongdae doesn’t know if he’ll ever get something like this again.

Eventually, finally, Zitao tracks his kisses from Jongdae’s waist to below his navel, eyeing the half-hard dick as if to assess. Jongdae shifts, sitting up and sliding out from under Zitao, shaking his head: ‘don’t - you’re a prince.’

Zitao is left kneeling on the bed across from him, still fully clothed, with a pink flush to his cheeks and a swollen, wet mouth. He looks utterly gorgeous. Jongdae gestures for him to come closer, and Zitao doesn’t hesitate, folds himself right up against Jongdae to kiss him.

If he believes Zitao is greedy, then Jongdae is ravenous - thinks if this is just _once_ , just this _once_ , then he wants to make sure he gets the most of it. He’s not smooth or composed when his fingers catch against the hem of Zitao’s robes, tugs at them. And Zitao only moans against Jongdae’s mouth - clearly in agreement - because he’s batting away Jongdae’s hands and undoing it all himself.

It only takes a few moments for Zitao to slide out of his clothes entirely, reveal his battle-scarred skin, the hard muscle underneath. He’s shameless when Jongdae runs his hands down his torso, pulls away from Jongdae’s mouth to gasp, grab onto Jongdae too.

Being smaller, Jongdae just accepts how Zitao presses him into the bed, burying his face into Jongdae’s neck when Jongdae curls his fingers, drags thin red lines across Zitao’s ribs to his nipples. He thumbs them and shivers when Zitao mewls into his neck, clearly eager for more.

He’s so helplessly responsive to Jongdae, making all his pretty soft noises next to Jongdae’s ear as Jongdae tries to touch every part of him, from chest to stomach, along the shifting muscles of Zitao’s back, shoulder blades. He tips his head to the side and traces his teeth along the tendon of Zitao’s throat, down to the curve of his shoulder, listening to how Zitao gasps out, ‘please - ’, before finally biting down, making sure it would bruise by morning.

After the third bite, Zitao’s hips drop, ruts his half-hard cock into Jongdae’s hip. The friction is much needed, has Jongdae groaning, but he doesn’t want it to end like this. For now, Jongdae’s nails sink into Zitao’s back - ‘Stop that.’

He freezes, breathing hard against Jongdae’s throat.

‘Up,’ says Jongdae, pushing Zitao to the side. Despite the difference in size, Zitao goes easily, pliantly, splayed out over the bed shameless in his nudity. Kneeling next to him, Jongdae can’t help but feel satisfaction at seeing the red marks along the curve of Zitao’s shoulder, how his mouth is swollen red and wet, the dark of his eyes, how his cock is hard and curving, such a pretty flushed pink.

‘Ge,’ he says softly. ‘I want - wanna…’ Jongdae ghosts his hand down Zitao’s stomach, feeling the muscles tighten underneath his touch, before cupping his dick in his palm, putting pressure. Zitao gasps, squirms, ‘ _ge_.’

‘What?’ Jongdae asks, eyes on Zitao’s flushed face as he moves downwards, bracketing his knees around Zitao’s thighs. He tips forward, mouth so _so_ close to the head of Zitao’s cock, and Zitao’s face crumples up, has him shaking his head.

‘No, you’re - you shouldn’t,’ he tries, even as he hisses when Jongdae strokes his cock once, twice. ‘ _Don’t_.’

Jongdae draws away, dragging his palm over the hard plane of Zitao’s abdomen, thumbing the sharp arch of his hipbone. ‘Even if I want to?’

‘Just tell me,’ he says, a determined set to his jaw as he looks down at Jongdae. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking for once.’

 _There’s too much_ , Jongdae wants to say. There’s too many things in his head, too many images and half-imagined dreams, too many possibilities as long as Zitao humoured him, too many ways he wants to put his hands and mouth all over Zitao and make him _his_ , make him _belong_ to Jongdae in ways that no one else can.

Instead, Jongdae moves onto the side, off Zitao entirely, tries to snag onto any phrase in his head that can encompass all that he _wants_. ‘I want to get you off. I want to _see_ you get off.’

Zitao doesn’t reply for a moment. Then, slowly, he says, ‘Can you fuck me?’

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Jongdae exhales.

Bringing his knees up, Zitao spreads his thighs open, lets his feet hang in the air as he exposes himself - dick hard, the curve of his tight ass, his hole. ‘Want you here, ge, fucking me.’ Possessiveness flashes hot through Jongdae. He moves in between Zitao’s legs, running his hands down the back of his thighs, cupping his ass, spreading him apart that much more. Zitao’s head drops back against the cushions, moaning softly. ‘There - please. I - I’ll be so good - ’

‘You’re _more_ than good,’ says Jongdae, unexpectedly fierce. ‘This what you want? For me to open you up and fuck you into the bed?’

‘Yes,’ he mewls, trying to arch into Jongdae’s touch. ‘ _Yes_.’

Jongdae drags his thumb over Zitao’s asshole, just to hear him whine. ‘Anything,’ he promises, sudden, sincere. ‘Turn over.’

As Zitao moves, Jongdae gets off the bed and strides over to Zitao’s trunk in the corner of the room. The trunk opens up to reveal neatly folded clothes and a box sitting at the very top. The box holds exactly what Jongdae expects: bath oils, ointments for the skin, perfumes, some rings and bracelets, a prettily carved comb. He takes one of the capped bottles of oil, closing the box and trunk quickly, striding back to the bed.

Zitao is on his stomach, face turned to the side to watch Jongdae. His knees are spread wide so his spine curves ever-so-gently to the rise of his ass, the curve of his cock hanging between his thighs and threatening to brush against the bed.

‘Good,’ croons Jongdae as he settles behind Zitao’s ass and watches how he shivers at the compliment, so _easy_ when needy to please. ‘You’re so good, I’m going to open you up on my fingers.’

‘Please,’ says Zitao. He rests his cheek against the cushions, moving his hands back to cup his ass and spread himself open, even more vulnerable like this. ‘Like this, please.’

‘Shit,’ he says under his breath at the sight - Zitao’s elegant, calloused fingers pressing into the skin of his ass, so ready to show how much he _wants_ Jongdae, even if it’s slutty, desperate. Jongdae can’t help it; he leans forward and mouths wetly against Zitao’s hole, leaving the bottle on the bed, still capped.

‘Zhongda-ge - !’ chokes out Zitao, his nails digging into his ass as Jongdae eats him out, licking over his hole again and again until Zitao is mewling and relaxing. It’s so gratifying to hear all the sounds Zitao lets out, pitched little mewls that sound like begs for Jongdae’s tongue. ‘Oh fuck - _fuck_ \- feels _good_ \- ’

Jongdae groans against Zitao’s ass, wanting to hear him more, but that would mean moving away, giving the chance for Zitao to say _no_ to something that Jongdae _wants_ to do - no matter how filthy. He flicks his tongue over the rim, thumb coming up to rub his dripping spit along the perineum, pressing down for that little crest of pleasurable pressure, and is rewarded with the glorious sound of Zitao’s sob, ‘ _ah_ \- s’good - please, _please_ \- ’

Eventually, one of Zitao’s palms slips from his ass, landing hard on the bed as he moans into the cushions. Jongdae doesn’t think before his own hand cracks against Zitao’s ass, leaving the skin glowing pink as Zitao lurches forward in surprise, his voice caught in his throat.

‘Sorry - sorry - please, ge - ’ he rambles, his hand wiping the sweat on the bed before going back to hold open his ass. ‘Won’t do it again - fuck, _fuck_ \- won’t - ‘

Jongdae rewards him with a spit-slick finger, sliding in two knuckles deep as he sucks at Zitao’s rim. ‘ _Oh_ ,’ he gasps. ‘More, I-I can take more.’

Jongdae doesn’t doubt it. He pumps into Zitao’s ass, feeling how relaxed Zitao becomes with each passing second. With Zitao spreading his ass, it’s easy for Jongdae to keep licking sloppily over his hole, getting it even wetter than before. He waits until Zitao’s noises get more breathless before adding a second, wondering for a moment if Zitao could take his cock just like this - spread open with Jongdae’s spit and nothing more, the burn of the stretch making Zitao’s limbs melt into the bed with his ass full of dick.

Zitao is making breathless little noises with each of fuck of Jongdae’s fingers, nails digging into the skin of his ass as he keeps holding himself open, completely vulnerable for Jongdae to do as he likes. ‘F-Feels good, _ah_ ,’ he mewls when Jongdae tries to ingratiate his tongue next to his fingers. ‘Yes, _fuck_ , yes.’

Any more than two fingers and the stretch might hurt - the opposite of what Jongdae wants. He pulls away entirely, hands and mouth, only to have Zitao make a confused noise at him. ‘Still here,’ he says, uncapping the bottle and smearing oil onto his fingers. ‘Can you take more, Zitao?’

‘Yes, ready,’ says Zitao, adjusting his grip on his ass, makes sure he’s still so open for Jongdae to see his wet hole, his pretty pink rim.

‘Gorgeous,’ Jongdae tells him, sliding three of his fingers inside, watching how Zitao’s ass stretches, lets him slide inside, feel how soft and tight and hot he is. ‘So, so gorgeous.’

The compliment has Zitao shuddering, riding down on Jongdae’s fingers, like he’s too impatient to wait. Like he wants to take the fingers quick, like he wants to _impress_. ‘Fuck me,’ he pleads, ass clutching at Jongdae’s knuckles as he slowly pulls his fingers out, presses back in. ‘ _Oh_ fuck, please, fuck me, won’t hurt me.’

‘Even like this?’ Jongdae spreads his fingers apart, stretching him open. Zitao tenses up at the burn before moaning and melting back into the bed, and Jongdae should have expected Zitao’s tolerance for pain to be high. Of course he could take it - could revel in it, the feeling of his body being pushed to the limit, whether it was in a fight or sex. ‘Then I’m going to fuck you.’

‘ _Yes_ , please,’ he gasps, tensed and waiting as Jongdae pulls his hand away and slicks up his cock. ‘Fuck me, fuck me, please, ge.’

Gently, Jongdae takes Zitao’s hands, pulls them away from his ass. ‘Turn around, on your back.’

Zitao obeys, and for a moment Jongdae is struck with how easily Zitao listens to him, trusts him. Spread out before him, Zitao is just as gorgeous naked as he is dressed up in silk robes or ceremonial armour. The winter has stripped the bronze from Zitao’s skin, but he still glows under the lamplight, with his muscle and his long, strong limbs, even the dusting of dark hair around his pretty dick.

‘Aren’t you just perfect?’ Jongdae looks up at Zitao, who is peering down at him, brows pulled together in eager anticipation.

‘Zhongda-ge,’ mewls Zitao, arching up, like the words had dragged over his skin.

Jongdae doesn’t waste time anymore, lifts Zitao’s thighs up and pushes forward, his cock dragging along Zitao’s ass, crown catching along the stretched out hole. He hisses and Zitao moans, grabbing at the back of his own knees, spread out all over again for Jongdae.

‘So good for me,’ says Jongdae, steadying his cock and pushing in, feeling how readily Zitao’s ass takes him in. ‘Just like this.’

The stretch has Zitao shivering, but he doesn’t wait to roll his hips back to meet Jongdae’s first thrust, pushing through the burn entirely. ‘Like this?’ he pleads, looking down at Jongdae with such a pretty flush to his cheeks.

‘Yeah,’ replies Jongdae, fucking in harder on the second thrust, just to see Zitao’s head fall back in a moan. ‘Gonna fuck you just like this.’

Bracing his hands on the backs of Zitao’s thighs, he slams in, listening to how his hips slap against Zitao’s ass. Zitao’s knuckles go white as he holds onto the back of his knees, and Jongdae knocks his hands away, takes over for Zitao to ply him in half, fuck into him hard.

Zitao takes it oh-so-gloriously - hands falling back against the cushions for a grip as Jongdae drives his cock into his ass over and over again, makes sure Zitao can feel each thrust in his bones. Jongdae doesn’t want Zitao to forget this, wants to mark him from the inside-out - for this one night, Jongdae _had_ Zitao, all for _himself_.

‘Wanna - wanna - ’ gasps Zitao, one hand reaching behind him, bracing his palm against the wall. Jongdae fucks in and draws his cock back out slow, feels how Zitao’s hole clenches around him. The next thrust has Zitao pushing against the wall, meeting Jongdae’s hips halfway, and Jongdae swears, feels how deep his cock is buried inside of Zitao, how Zitao moans even louder, ‘fuck - please - can I?’

Jongdae grinds into him, catching against that sweet spot that has Zitao’s cock leaking a puddle of precome on his belly. ‘That what you want, Prince?’ He’s teasing, wants to drag it out of Zitao, just to see him give in that much more under Jongdae. ‘Want to ride back onto my dick like that?’

Zitao doesn’t even hesitate, his gaze clear when he looks at Jongdae, even if his pupils are blown with desire. ‘Yes, please, ge, want your cock deep inside, please.’

And Jongdae can’t imagine denying Zitao anything after that. Gripping hard onto the back of Zitao’s knees, he throws his weight behind his thrusts, feels how Zitao’s hips meet him for each fuck, takes Jongdae’s cock eagerly with all his moans echoing out in the room, full of choked off, ‘ _ah_ \- yes, _yes_ \- ge - !’

‘Fuck, can you come like this?’ Jongdae keeps slamming into him, feeling how tight and _hot_ Zitao is around his cock, how it feels so fucking good. ‘Can you come on my cock, Zitao?’

Zitao arches, gasping, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Ge, Zhongda-ge - ’

‘Want to see it,’ he says, voice rough with want. ‘Want to see you - _fuck_ \- come because of me, want to feel it all around my cock.’

Each thrust has Zitao’s dick slapping against his stomach, smeared in its own precome. Zitao is too busy trying to keep pace with Jongdae’s fucking, his voice cracking when Jongdae’s dick hits his prostate hard, so Jongdae takes pity and cups Zitao’s cock in his hand, feeling how hard and wet it is.

Immediately, Zitao arches, bucks his hips into the touch. ‘I’ll - I’ll come - for ge, wanna come for ge - ’

‘So good,’ praises Jongdae, even as Zitao loses the rhythm, too caught up between wanting Jongdae’s cock working his ass or trying to get even more friction on his dick. ‘Doing just as ge wants, is that it?’

‘Yes, _yes_ ,’ he says, nodding frantically as he gives up on trying to fuck back onto Jongdae’s cock, fisting the cushions as his hips jerk up with each stroke of Jongdae’s hand. ‘For you, for _you_ \- ’

‘For _me_ ,’ he echoes out before the implication shoots through his spine, settling low in his belly where his possessiveness uncoils. He lets go of Zitao’s cock and pushes his hips against his ass, grinding against that sweet spot that has Zitao’s moans get all slurred together. He folds Zitao in half, free hand landing on the bed beside Zitao’s heaving chest, cock still pumping in sharp, short thrusts that makes Zitao hiccup with gasps.

This close and Jongdae can see every pretty tendon in Zitao’s throat, the sharp curve of his collarbone, the aristocratic line of his jaw. Zitao’s mouth is so close to his, but he can’t reach, not while he’s busy fucking into Zitao’s ass, making sure Zitao can feel his hole stretch around the thickness, drag against the length every time Jongdae pulls out, how he gets so tight when Jongdae slams back inside.

‘Zhongda-ge,’ moans Zitao, hands letting go of the cushions to brace his arms around Jongdae’s shoulders, nails digging into the skin when Jongdae’s cock punches into his prostate, has pleasure shoot right through him. ‘G-Gonna come, like you want.’

‘Do it,’ he says, hissing at the bite of pain from Zitao’s frantic grip on his back, knowing there would be marks. ‘Do it, come for me.’

Zitao lifts his head only to bury it into Jongdae’s hair, so Jongdae can feel every shiver, every hitch of his breath, hear each pretty noise even better, the smeared inflection over his name when Zitao calls for him, begging and wanting.

It doesn’t take long - Jongdae works his hips hard, makes sure his cock hits Zitao’s sweet spot more often than not, and Zitao is arching, squirming, his cock trapped between both of them. Zitao keeps holding on tight, his muscles trembling as his orgasm builds in the pit of his stomach, and he begins to ramble between all his moans, ‘close - close - please, ge, don’t st- _op_ , ah - for you, gonna come for you, like you want - ’

‘For me,’ says Jongdae, overwhelmed by the idea of Zitao - his superior, his _prince_ \- all for Jongdae to keep, and he’s leaning down, digging his teeth into Zitao’s collarbone, wants so badly to mark his throat for them all to see but knowing better.

Zitao sobs, coming hard, his muscles locking up as his cock jerks and spits out line after line of come between them both. His ass is milking Jongdae’s cock, and Jongdae doesn’t bother pulling out, grinds into Zitao’s prostate so Zitao can’t stop whining as he empties out.

He doesn’t bother coming down from his orgasm before he’s clawing at Jongdae’s back, ‘please, ge, please come, wanna make you come,’ even as his cock twitches from oversensitivity.

Zitao almost wails when Jongdae resumes fucking him - doesn’t go slow, not when he’s so close and Zitao is so pliant, so ready to take Jongdae even when he’s rough and hard. If anything, Zitao only holds onto him tighter, scratching lines down Jongdae’s back, the sharp sting of pain only highlighting how good Zitao’s ass feels around his cock.

‘Please,’ begs Zitao, shameless and wanting and _perfect_. ‘Please - wanna make you come - ah, wanna be good - ge, fuck, wanna be good for you - ’

‘Mine,’ says Jongdae, unable to make it a question, not if there was a risk of denial.

And Zitao is mewling, nodding, his mouth trying to find Jongdae’s as he says, ‘ _yours_ ,’ up against Jongdae’s lips.

Groaning, Jongdae barely manages to pull his cock out before he’s coming, breaking out of Zitao’s hold and holding himself up on a trembling arm, jerking his dick roughly as he spills all over Zitao’s stomach, chest, marking him up.

Laid out on the bed, Zitao is a beautiful sight of debauchery - glistening in sweat, skin glowing and flushed, white lines of come spread over his torso above his softening, wet cock. His arms are reaching out again, and Jongdae goes, settling onto his side next to Zitao so Zitao can hold him close, his hands settling warmly along Jongdae’s skin.

‘Need to clean you up,’ he murmurs, still coming down from his high, the feeling of Zitao pressing _yours_ against his mouth still lingering over his skin, tattooed into his memory.

Zitao unhooks one hand from around Jongdae, reaching between them to slide his fingers curiously through the mess of come on his stomach. He brings his hand back up, eyeing the come curiously, but Jongdae catches his wrist. ‘Don’t. You’re a prince,’ he reminds Zitao and leans forward to lick the fingers clean himself.

When he’s done, he tugs Zitao’s hand away, surprised when Zitao’s face is suddenly so close to him, watching him with awe. ‘Ge…’

‘I’m not going to clean you up with my tongue,’ says Jongdae, but Zitao shakes his head, leans in for a kiss, his tongue darting past Jongdae’s mouth for a taste. Jongdae pulls away, eyebrows raised, ‘that’s _also_ improper for a prince.’

‘But it’s ge,’ says Zitao, eyes soft, a small pleased smile on his mouth. ‘Wanted to taste ge.’

The image of Zitao, mouth open around his cock, mouth and cheeks smeared with his come, flashes through Jongdae’s head. ‘Fuck,’ he swears, figures he should pull away now before Zitao ropes him into some other terrible idea.

Zitao whines as Jongdae goes around the room, looking for a cloth that _isn’t_ worth an entire piece of land. He eventually finds a soft towel and brings it back, makes Zitao lie down flat so Jongdae can carefully wipe him down clean.

‘Ge,’ he mumbles, clearly getting sleepy under the attention. ‘Was I good?’

Jongdae finds the bottle of oil on the bed as he finishes up, puts it and the cloth on the floor to take care of later. Right now, Zitao was warm and clearly wanting attention. He settles into Zitao’s side again, bringing a blanket with him to lay over top them both. ‘You’re perfect,’ says Jongdae, meaning it, wanting Zitao to never doubt it. ‘Perfect.’

Zitao purrs from deep within his chest, wrapping his limbs around Jongdae - a heavy, warm heap of sleepiness. He falls asleep quickly enough, breathing deep and steady, and Jongdae stays awake as the lamp oil burns out, eyes tracing and retracing the bruise he’s left on Zitao’s collarbone.

-

Morning comes in waves, feeling slow, bleary, warm. They don’t wake until a servant knocks on the door, leaves both breakfasts and the tea tray behind before softly shutting the door behind them.

Zitao is on his side, facing the door, and Jongdae is curled against his back, arm thrown around Zitao’s waist tightening for a moment, not ready to let go. Everything still feels like a dream - that for a night, Zitao _belonged_ to him, so willing and trusting, even _adoring_ towards Jongdae - and Jongdae isn’t ready to wake up yet.

The scent of the breakfast eventually reaches the bed and Zitao pulls away first, gently drawing away from Jongdae’s touch and slipping out of the bed to find himself a robe to throw over his nudity. Jongdae blinks back his sleep, taking far longer than Zitao, before something like reality settles into his brain, has him realizing he has to go back to how things are now.

He finds his robes from yesterday pooled on the side of the bed and throws on the outer layer, padding over to the table where Zitao organizes breakfast.

The collar is loose enough on Zitao’s robe that Jongdae can see the bruises he’s left over from last night. He draws his hand back into his sleeve in order not to reach over and touch.

‘Sleep well?’ Jongdae asks, breaking the silence as he folds onto the cushion, looking over at the various dishes laid out in front of him. Across from him, Zitao pours out the tea into two cups, places them both on the table, and finally sits down as well.

‘Yes,’ murmurs Zitao, eyes cast down, focusing on the food.

Jongdae chews slowly on a bite, watching as Zitao looks at everything except for Jongdae. Well. ‘Should I leave, Prince?’

That makes Zitao look up, surprised. ‘No.’

‘Then we need to talk about yesterday.’

Zitao makes a face. ‘Can’t it wait after breakfast?’

‘So you can run away? No.’

‘I’m not - ’ He cuts off and deliberately takes a huge bite of his fish, stalling.

Jongdae rolls his eyes. ‘I need you to tell me what you’ve been doing with Minseok-jie if not sex.’

After a long moment, Zitao takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve only talked to her. That’s all we do - when we go riding or go into town. Sometimes we visit the court library and she tells me about history, or old emperors, or the flight paths of birds.’ He pauses in thought. ‘In the gardens, she points to the sky and tells me about the stars and what they mean… Minshuo-jie… she knows a lot.’

‘Yeah,’ says Jongdae, slipping into his own reminiscence. ‘She was tutored side by side with Lu-ge - paid a hell of a lot more attention than he did. Even back then, she was always finding out stuff - like court gossip and secret hideaways in the manor.’

Zitao nods. ‘She,’ he starts, stops, ducking his head. ‘She talks about you. A lot.’

Jongdae blinks, a little surprised. ‘What - like embarrassing childhood stories? Don’t listen to that, I was a good kid.’

Across from him, Zitao laughs - unbidden, almost startling himself. It has his shoulders loosening, and he exhales loudly, finally looking at Jongdae without his earlier awkwardness. ‘Minshuo-jie tells me your secrets.’

‘Me?’ Jongdae gestures to himself airily with his chopsticks. ‘I’m an open book, nothing to hide.’

‘Liar,’ he shoots back, a grin peeking out at the corners of his mouth.

‘My favourite colour is pink,’ says Jongdae, continuing to tease. There’s warmth in his chest and he wants this easiness between them to last just a little longer. ‘I once thought I had a pet chicken, until she got cooked.’

‘Ge!’ Zitao is laughing now. He never bothers to muffle it, not like how a proper prince should, and it echoes in the room, fills the air up with a lightness.

Jongdae lets him eat without interruption and sinks into his own head as he tries to decide where to go from here. Barring his earlier suspicion of Minseok and Zitao sleeping together, it meant that Luhan was agreeing to terms more quickly than anticipated for some other reason entirely. It could be due to events back at the Shu court but Jongdae had no way of knowing - even if he sent a letter to some of the royalty he knew, he was a minor noble at best and would be ignored.

‘Then we need to figure out why Lu-ge is moving,’ he says. ‘We can’t ask directly and we don’t know how the Shu court is faring right now. We can only depend on Minseok-jie mentioning something to you.’

Zitao nods. ‘But…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Is it a bad thing? For Luhan to be agreeing to our terms?’ Zitao cocks his head to the side in confusion. ‘We’ll get the treaties done faster and be back home sooner.’

‘It’s not the treaties I’m worried about,’ admits Jongdae. ‘If he’s moving quickly, that means he has a deadline - which could mean a number of things. There’s nothing that should require the emperor’s immediate attention in the middle of winter - no harvest or extra supervision of busy trade routes or starting new building projects. _Yet_ , Lu-ge is still rushing, which means something is wrong.’

He seems to hesitate before asking, softly, ‘Do you… know for sure Luhan is rushing?’

There’s a chance that Jongdae had just projected Luhan’s motivations because he was jealous of the way Zitao and Minseok were spending time together, and he isn’t above admitting it to himself. Still, Luhan can be cunning in his own way, and Jongdae couldn’t help but feel like he was getting played. ‘Call it intuition,’ he says. ‘But you’re right - I don’t have proof.’

‘Minshuo-jie once said that you’re usually right about things like that,’ says Zitao, eyes downcast in thought. ‘Gut instinct.’

‘Exposing my methods?’ Jongdae picks up his soup bowl to drink the broth. ‘Typical.’

Zitao watches him finish eating, curiously silent. Only as Jongdae begins stacking his empty dishes together does he speak again: ‘She said you’re a lot more scary than you let on.’

Jongdae laughs. ‘You keep saying that.’

He pouts. ‘Cause it’s true!’

While Zitao finishes his meal, Jongdae redresses in his robes from yesterday to at least pretend he didn’t fuck the crown prince when he has to walk back to his own rooms. Zitao neatly gathers all his dishes as well before standing up, striding much too quickly for Jongdae to react until he has a face-full of Zitao peering down at his face.

‘Can I,’ he murmurs, tipping his chin down.

They don’t have the time to spare for a repeat performance, but Jongdae knows better than to refuse. ‘If you want, Prince.’

Zitao stills, brows furrowing. ‘And you?’

‘I’m here to serve you.’

Pulling away, Zitao shakes his head, turns away to go to his trunk of clothes. ‘Of course you are.’ His voice is sharp, snide - a clear dismissal. Jongdae doesn’t stay.

-

The others notice.

It takes them a few days to catch on - catching too many times where Zitao coolly interrupts Jongdae when he’s making a point or sitting back in silence while Luhan verbally rips Jongdae apart until Minseok politely intervenes. Whenever the nobles need to be gathered for a conference or dinner, Zitao comes early, separately, and does not acknowledge his own advisor other than with a nod, resumes talking and laughing being charming and warm with everyone in the room except Jongdae.

For his part, Jongdae tries to reconcile - tries to meet Zitao in his rooms, catch him in the stables, find him after they’ve all emptied out from the room. Zitao’s retinue guards his door and don’t reveal their prince’s location, and Zitao himself is quick to move or busy himself with the half dozen people he surrounds himself with so easily.

Their fallout is embarrassingly public, and Jongdae is forced to swallow down the humiliation. Whether Zitao loathed his existence or not, Jongdae had at least trusted for some sort of cooperation in the face of the opposition, but maybe he had underestimated Zitao. Using that easy charm, Zitao easily convinced onlookers it wasn’t him that was being petty, only his advisor who talked too loud and too fast and too rough.

Jongdae doesn’t know how to play against his own superior - that wasn’t in his fucking job description. Nevertheless, he had managed to draft up their umpteenth peace treaty, covering lands, nobles, military command, and trade routes. The last bit that would need to be finalized is the organization of payment of tithes. Luhan was adamant in fighting against monetary expense - which didn’t surprise Jongdae. Surrounded by mountains and a limited access to sea meant Shu didn’t exactly have the largest treasury, though they still netted a tidy profit from their trades in meat and fruit and - most importantly - the expensive jewels the mountains could provide.

Eventually, he’d have to give in. It might take a week of constant badgering, but Luhan’s own deadline was approaching, even if Jongdae could not figure out why there was a countdown in the first place.

Of course, before they can move onto the money part, the Wu court takes a deep breath and declares its festival of the winter solstice.

‘No expenses have been spared for our illustrious guests,’ says Yixing. ‘So we will put the treaties on hold until then.’

‘Of course,’ says Jongdae, with Minseok and Luhan nodding along, Zitao’s voice chiming with his typical enthusiasm, eager to know what it would all be like.

The Wu court does not disappoint.

The manor’s gates are opened into the town, nobles spilling out from the courtyard into the streets to join in the celebrations that have been set up. Yifan and Yixing lead their guests, flanked by a small retinue of their personal guard, as they follow a crowd into the market streets where most of the festivities are set up.

Jongdae has walked through the town himself numerous times, and he’d never found it _bad_ to look at, even when the soft layer of snow mixed with the dirt, became ugly piles of grey swept to the corners of the streets. Now, however - now, Jianye had _bloomed_ open in celebration for the longest night, appreciation to the God of Ice for the temperate winter this year, happy to have made it halfway through the season already.

The streets are full of elegantly cut lanterns strung between rooftops, food vendors lined up along the wider roads, incense and candles lit and placed along windowsills and counters as if to reflect the stars from the night sky.  Celebrations begin in the early-coming twilight - performers taking the day to set up before entertaining all night, until the moon would reach its peak at the apex of the sky. Myths are re-enacted in impromptu stage plays within the streets, quick-witted musicians responding to the crowd’s taste for songs, dancers dressed in the royalty’s colours of green and blue reverently keeping pace to the beat to show their appreciation for both emperor and god.

It’s beautiful and before he knows it, Jongdae is swept up in the enthusiasm, chats with Minseok as they try the food, challenges to Luhan to one of the stall games that is rigged to make them both lose. Even Luhan has to laugh at that - cracking through his customary grumpiness to get him to relax. Yixing takes her time complimenting the performers they pass by and talking with the townspeople who seem a bit overwhelmed by the appearance of their empress. Zitao hangs off Yifan’s arm, having him explain the charms and prayers that are being sold, the appeal of the trinkets and gifts in the other stores. Junmyeon joins them later - separating from the other nobles of the Wu court to find the emperor and empress in the streets, slipping her arms around Jongdae and Minseok and crooning, ‘a family reunion,’ which has Jongdae snorting into his food.

As the night progresses, the group disperses. Jongdae is with Minseok for most of it, catching up with her, finds himself teasing her for being so soft for loudmouths like Luhan and Zitao and him. They pull away from the more crowded main streets so the noise fades into the background, finding half-hidden stalls of steamed buns and small, homemade shrines tucked in-between buildings - decorated with small trinkets and incense lit in thanks.

Jongdae bows and leaves behind a coin, Minseok following his example. ‘I didn’t think I’d end up here,’ he confesses to her after a long moment. ‘I was polishing the floor months ago.’

Minseok bumps her shoulder against his. ‘You’ve always climbed up the ladders fast.’

‘There isn’t a ladder from temple janitor to political advisor, jiejie.’

‘Yet you found one anyway,’ she laughs. Dressed in ice blue, she looks as remarkably regal as the statues he used to clean back in Luoyang. ‘Even managed to ingratiate yourself with the crown prince of all people.’

He grins. ‘Who can ever resist me?’

‘Lu-ge, for one,’ Minseok shoots back dryly. ‘We had been worried when the border town got attacked years back, but when reports of your body didn’t reach back to Chengdu, I knew you must’ve managed to escape. Like a rat?’

‘ _Rat_?’ Jongdae sputters, offended.

‘Anyway,’ she continues, ignoring him. ‘I never expected you across the negotiating table, but I wasn’t surprised either. Lu-ge, though…’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Lu-ge’s just stubborn and it’s not like I’m giving him a bad deal.’

‘Obviously _I_ know that.’ Minseok tucks her hands behind her sleeves, lost in thought. ‘At this point, we just want to go home.’

The floating deadline. Jongdae glances over at Minseok, assessing, and decides _fuck it_. ‘What’s the rush?’

She looks up but nothing in her expression gives her away. ‘Homesickness.’

Jongdae doesn’t blink. ‘Sure.’

Exhaling loudly, Minseok stops walking and looks back over her shoulder. ‘I should get back to Lu-ge, check up on him just in case. You coming?’

He shakes his head. ‘I think I’ll walk a little bit more before I catch up.’

The lanterns cast a soft glow over Minseok’s figure as she walks down the street, keeping up a steady pace but not rushed. He watches until she turns the corner, disappearing entirely from view, before sighing. He had pushed and gotten nothing out of it, except a confirmation that something _was_ coming. If Luhan was ready to leave, then it was best for Zitao to be out of Wu before then as well. Jongdae scowls - if only Zitao would just _listen_ instead of giving him the cold shoulder. He’d have thought fucking the crown prince would get them closer instead of Zitao blocking him off entirely.

Best to walk off his annoyance before he joins the rest of them.

The streets are quiet, with only a few dozen people walking around him - townspeople in their best clothes, usually in pairs or with their families, laughing amongst one another, gesturing to the line of lanterns that led to the bigger main streets. The moon was not at its zenith yet, which meant Jongdae had time to spare before the climax of the festival and the passing of the solstice.

He wanders around, catching sight of another half-hidden shrine, decides he could use a prayer on an auspicious night.

Taking a coin out, he places it next to the burning incense, observing the crudely carved wooden statue of the God of Ice at the centre of the shrine, decorated in pieces of brightly dyed cloth and dots of paint to make up the features. Jongdae clasps his hands, bows his head. _For safety and for success_.

He ends his prayer with a deep bow and turns around, almost bumping into someone. ‘Shit, sorry,’ he says, backing off, and looks up at the stranger.

The stranger is rather bulky with a serious expression on his face, and something in Jongdae’s gut screams at him to get away, but it’s too late. The knife in the stranger’s hand slides neatly between Jongdae’s ribs and twists.

-

The next thing he knows is that there’s yelling.

Jongdae chokes on a rush of blood up his esophagus and falls against the ground, surprise overriding the pain for just a moment. Thankfully the knife doesn’t come back to finish the job because a figure is on top of the stranger, yelling for someone to alert the guards. He tries to focus on something, _anything_ , that could be useful but it’s too hard when he can’t breathe, coughing blood and clawing at the ground to push himself back up.

Eventually there are hands grabbing at him, pulling him onto his feet. He can’t see clearly in front of him, only manage out another rush of people coming towards him. Somewhere between his robes being stripped and soldiers rushing to get him back to the manor, Jongdae still can’t manage to catch his breath and passes out.

-

He wakes up a couple hours later, sweating out a fever and still in pain, but at least now he’s able to breathe.

The room is glowing dimly from a single lantern and Jongdae tries to push past the pain to recognize that he’s in Zitao’s room, in Zitao’s bed. ‘The fuck,’ he says and starts coughing due to his dry throat.

‘Zhongda,’ says Zitao, coming into view at his side, clearly sleep rumpled from his mussed hair and the robe threatening to slip off his shoulders. He ducks away for a few seconds before coming back with a cup of water, slipping a strong arm around Jongdae’s shoulders to ease him up so he can drink.

The water is a relief - cold enough to let him focus away from the pain for a minute. There are bandages over his ribs with spots of blood already leaking through, but at least he’s alive.

Jongdae manages to drink half the jar of water sitting on the table before shaking his head. ‘Thanks.’

Zitao nods, putting down the cup, and ends up curling next to Jongdae on the bed, drawing the blanket down to check on his bandages, scowling at the bloodstains. ‘I’ll change these.’

‘Not now,’ says Jongdae, leaning back a little, trying to find a position that didn’t tug at the stitches of his wound. ‘Fuck - what happened?’

‘You went off _alone_ and got _stabbed_ ,’ says Zitao, somehow managing to convey panic and a scolding at the same time.

Jongdae rolls his eyes, finds that’s painful too with the headache. ‘Who the hell would stab me?’

Zitao stares at him, expression twisted up in incredulousness. ‘Maybe the same person who tried to kick your ribs in?’

That was surprising, honestly. ‘Really - Lu-ge hired the guy?’

Sighing, Zitao shakes his head, looking away. ‘There was a city guard in the street when he saw you get stabbed. You’re lucky he acted so fast, but the fight was rough and the guard was forced to kill the man. No identity or money on him, so for right now, we don’t even know _who_ he is, much less who hired him.’

‘Damn.’ Jongdae’s head was too fuzzy right now to sort the details, but it still seemed like there might’ve been more than luck at work to make sure he didn’t die.

‘Zhongda,’ says Zitao, making him look up, wondering if there was anything else to add. The last thing he expects is for Zitao to cup his jaw and kiss him hard. There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, tell Zitao that Jongdae’s disgusting - caked in sweat and blood and grime and who knows what else - but instead, he closes his eyes and kisses back.

The reciprocation has Zitao whining, pulling away suddenly, and Jongdae watches wide-eyed as Zitao starts _crying_. ‘Oh shit - Prince - Zitao - ’

‘Don’t fucking do that,’ sobs Zitao, hand already wiping at his cheeks frantically, trying to reign it in. ‘Don’t - you’re not supposed to get hurt.’

‘I mean - I didn’t plan on it,’ babbles Jongdae, pain and panic making him completely useless. ‘Don’t cry - fuck - I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful, I swear.’

‘Promise,’ he says, voice thick. ‘Promise you won’t get hurt.’

‘That’s - that’s not exactly something I can promise,’ replies Jongdae, feeling awkward and flailing. He reaches out, clasps his palm over Zitao’s nape, squeezes once. ‘I’m sorry for all this.’

‘For what?’

He gestures to himself. ‘I pissed you off, didn’t I? After that night. And now I’ve gotten myself fucking stabbed and taken over your room apparently.’

‘You’re so _stupid_ ,’ says Zitao, staring at him in disbelief.

Jongdae is affronted. ‘Have some sympathy for the wounded.’

‘Did you only fuck me because I am your prince?’

If he wasn’t panicking before, the sirens in his head blare loud enough to deafen out any other thought he was having. He ends up staring blankly at Zitao for too long, cracks out a, ‘I’m feeling faint,’ and tries to slide down into the pillows. The moment he moves, Zitao’s eyes flash and his hand shoots out, grabs Jongdae’s chin, fingers tight along his jaw, stilling him entirely, not letting Jongdae look away.

He knows Zitao is strong - has to be strong, if he’s going to command anyone - but feeling Zitao keep him in place with just a handhold is a surprise. An unwelcome surprise. Jongdae’s lip curls back, voice cold: ‘Let go, Prince.’

Immediately, Zitao drops his hand, curling his fingers into himself. ‘Scary,’ he exhales.

Jongdae doesn’t humour him. ‘If you’re scared of me, then how did you even win a battle, much less a war?’

‘Through steel and blood,’ replies Zitao, not looking away. ‘I don’t do what you do. You look at people and think of ways to rip them apart to get what you want. You listen in on their secrets and watch them even when no one else is looking. You’re nothing like a soldier - at least I can depend on the people around me when I go into battle. But _you_ \- you’re always so alone, because you don’t care about people, do you?’

The pain and fatigue already tried most of his patience, and the headache is too sharp in his skull for him to deal with some petty accusation on his lack of humanity.

‘Why would I be here if I didn’t give a shit?’ He sneers, but Zitao doesn’t flinch. ‘I’m here so two kingdoms don’t go to war again. I’m here to solidify a fucking peace treaty to prevent more chaos.’ He gestures sharply to the decor of the room, wants to remind Zitao of the fact that they’re inside the Wu manor, inside _enemy territory_. ‘These people aren’t above violence to get what they want - and you’re calling _me_ soulless?’

For a long moment, Zitao watches him, utterly still with an unreadable expression on his face. ‘Now what?’

‘Now, I rest.’

‘And when the day comes?’ Pulling away now, Zitao stands, adjusts his robe about his shoulders. ‘If you think you’re going to leave this room…’

‘Fine.’ Jongdae wasn’t sure he could stand anyway, much less dress and arrive at a meeting. ‘Then you have to stall.’

‘That won’t be hard.’ There’s a sleeping roll that’s been set up at the foot of the main bed, so that when Zitao folds himself into the covers, Jongdae feels like he’s being guarded by a hound at his feet. ‘There’s an assassin to hunt down first.’

Jongdae can’t help it, he’s curious. ‘And when you find them?’

Zitao seems to scoff, as if Jongdae’s being foolish. ‘Then I’m going to kill them.’

-

The physician drugs him in the morning, makes him wash it down with tea so he sleeps for most of the day.

By evening, the physician declares his fever has mostly been sweated out, and a small amount of opium would help ease the pain from acute to dull. His wound is cleaned - the actual cut is small, but the bruise around it spreads like he’s been bludgeoned by a horse’s foot - and the bandages are changed every few hours. Even though Jongdae is a restless sleeper, his stitches don’t tear this time.

The servants call the nobles for dinner but Jongdae is still in bed, waiting for his meal to be delivered to him. When the door slides open, he can spot the two armed guards of Zitao’s retinue standing there, inspecting the servant and the tray of food.

Just as was done for breakfast and lunch, the servant kneels next to Jongdae and takes a bite of each of the dishes, decidedly not dying of poison, which meant Jongdae could eat.

He hasn’t received any updates of the castle’s going-ons - the guards have no clue and the servants are too many to interrogate properly. Jongdae realizes now why the higher-ranked nobles spent their money on spies - being in the dark was a cruel fate when Jongdae was caught in enemy territory. If someone wanted to kill him, he should have been dead twenty times over by now, which meant something else was at play.

Finally, once the moon has risen high, does Zitao return to his room in a flurry, brow creased and mouth turned down at the corners.

‘So today went well, huh,’ says Jongdae, going through his pile of papers that he asked a guard to fetch from his room earlier.

Zitao scowls, paces, restless. His hand twitches at his hip, but there’s no sword, and he can only curl his fingers into a fist. ‘No one has any _clue_ as to who it could be that wanted you dead. Luhan denied any involvement, obviously, and Minshuo is adamant that she didn’t lead you into that street. Yifan-ge is widening the search but what use will that do when the person who fucking hired you is in that damn room with him. Yixing-jie didn’t show up for dinner, and Junmian-jie insists we hold over the peace talks until the culprit is found.’

Nodding, Jongdae slowly gathers his papers in a pile. ‘And what have you been up to?’

‘Talking,’ he bites out. Zitao prowls the room like a trapped tiger, frustration clear on his expression as he casts his eyes around, as if looking for something. ‘I can’t tell - I can’t tell who’s lying and who’s not. With soldiers, it’s easy. They glance away, they repeat the question, their sweaty hands can’t grip their spear like the others, they rehearse before speaking. These nobles at court - they - I can’t _tell_.’

The irritation gets to him, has him striding too fast through the room so his foot knocks over Jongdae’s dinner tray, scattering the empty dishes over the floor. ‘Shit,’ he swears, stepping back, taking a deep breath. ‘Fuck.’

Putting the papers aside, Jongdae  pushes himself off the bed, biting back his groan at the soreness. Trying not to hobble, he goes slowly towards the mess, avoiding Zitao who is vibrating with nervous energy.

‘What are you doing?’ Zitao snaps, bending down immediately to get the dishes. ‘I can take care of at least this much.’

Jongdae pauses, stands patiently over Zitao, watching him. ‘They’re all experienced liars, prince,’ he says softly. ‘Even I have trouble.’

‘But you’re not out there, are you?’ His fingers tighten around the bowl, threatening to crack it, but he stacks it before it breaks. ‘You’re here - _hurt_. And I can’t even do anything to help you, to make sure it never happens again.’

‘You posted guards at my door.’

‘I fight better than all of them,’ he says, and it’s not a boast. Zitao seems to simply be stating fact. ‘I would be with you all day if I could.’

‘I won’t be killed.’

‘I don’t care.’

Jongdae blinks, surprised, doesn’t know what to make of that, if anything at all. He ignores it for now. ‘Listen, this person who concocted this entire thing - they know they can’t kill you. You’re a war-prince, you’d slaughter any assassin that came your way. Me? I’m a soft-skinned advisor, _and_ I’m almost as important as you during these talks. An attack on me is close enough to an attack on the entire Wei court. It might have worked better had I died, but I didn’t, and I don’t think that’s coincidence either.’

Setting the tray back on its feet, dishes cleaned up and placed on the surface, Zitao looks up at him. ‘Who wants to attack our court? I’ve just conquered an entire kingdom - we’re not weak.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Jongdae asks quietly. ‘Trying to spread your forces along two kingdoms now?’

Zitao clenches his jaw. ‘Luhan tried to kill you to stop the peace talks and escape from here.’

‘Is that what you’ve concluded?’

‘You told me he had a deadline and he was in a rush for something. What else other than trying to kill you?’

‘Then he should have bailed that night,’ says Jongdae. ‘If it’s as obvious as you say, then why stay here and risk you cutting his head off?’

‘Because it looks better that way to Yifan-ge.’ Making a frustrated noise, Zitao stands up, gesturing towards the closed door of the bedroom. ‘How is he going to have Jianye’s city walls open up for him without Yifan sending his approval?’

Jongdae tips his head to the side. ‘Good. You’re thinking.’

Realizing that Jongdae isn’t mocking him, Zitao seems to deflate. His frustration lowers to a simmer as he exhales loudly, strides towards the bed and sits on it with a loud thud, shoulders slumped. ‘Can you - just - here.’ He gestures to the space beside him and Jongdae goes.

All his movements are so slow, so sluggish, even when Jongdae wishes he was next to Zitao already, soak in the presence before he’s sent off again. It takes too long for him to seat himself, hissing under his breath at the way his stitches tug.

‘Still in pain?’ Zitao asks, looking at him with sympathy. He’s utterly shameless as he reaches over to curl his fingers around the collar of Jongdae’s robes, begin to pull his clothes off. Jongdae rolls his eyes but lifts his arms to let himself be stripped, glad that at least he has a pile of silk on his lap to cover his lower body as the coolness of the room makes goosebumps appear on his naked torso.

Zitao’s fingers are careful as they slide around the bandages, his eyes intent in observing how the physician did the wrappings. ‘Stab wounds can be tricky,’ he says. ‘Lots of internal bleeding, even if the entry wound was small. He didn’t poison the blade nor did he twist it when he took it out either, which means you’ll be healed soon enough.’

‘This assassin sucks,’ says Jongdae, ever-practical.

‘Don’t say that.’ Suddenly, he’s got a face-full of Zitao frowning at him. ‘He wanted to kill you with multiple stab wounds in quick succession, but the city guard stopped him.’

‘What city guard?’ That’s the part about this entire story that Jongdae doesn’t understand. ‘I didn’t see a city guard anywhere near us while Minseok-jie and I were walking - who is this guy that saved me?’

‘You could have missed seeing him,’ replies Zitao easily. ‘I’m not going to question it.’

Jongdae furrows his brow. ‘Why not? It’s clearly weird that someone was watching me that closely to see me get stabbed.’

‘Because without this guard, you’d be dead,’ he says, so utterly close to Jongdae that Jongdae can see the thickness of Zitao’s lashes, how they flare at the corners to make him look that much more feline.

Jongdae sucks in a sharp breath, teeters between moving away and leaning in that much closer. ‘There’s two forces at work here then. One that wants to hurt the Wei court, and one that wants to stop them.’

Zitao blinks slowly, cat eyes dark and attentive on Jongdae’s face. ‘Who?’

Too close, too close - Zitao’s hand on Jongdae’s bare waist is so warm and his expression is completely innocent even as his breath skates over Jongdae’s cheek every time he exhales. There’s an easy way out of this; all Jongdae has to do is push himself away, off the bed entirely, and dress himself back up. Yet - yet -

‘I don’t know yet,’ says Jongdae, voice quiet and low. ‘That’s why I need you.’

Zitao laughs - soft, sweet - and Jongdae can see the flash of his sharp, white teeth. ‘Do you?’

They’re not talking about politics anymore. ‘You rather I beg?’

Zitao leans forward, grazing his mouth over Jongdae’s cheek, nose bumping against the shell of his ear. ‘You wouldn’t beg for anything, ge.’

Jongdae is still, breathing deep. ‘I do as the prince wills.’

He can’t help but shiver even when Zitao pulls away entirely, standing up and running a hand through his hair, tone cool now. ‘Of course - can’t just act on your own, can you, ge?’

‘You don’t have to seduce me to have me in your bed,’ says Jongdae in case he wasn’t clear enough. Who knew with Zitao - who seemed to pick and choose his moods at random if only to inconvenience and baffle Jongdae.

With his back to Jongdae, Zitao shrugs, walks towards a wall-hanging whose details vanish in the night shadows that creep through the room. ‘Maybe I want to.’

‘A game?’

‘I can get Zhongda-ge the personal advisor, a subject of the Wei court, into my bed by just ordering him.’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘Other one?’ Jongdae starts gathering the heap of robes on his lap, ready to dress himself back up now that Zitao’s warmth was gone from his side.

‘Jin Zhongda - singer of whichever court that pays him the most. The one who plays the game wherever he goes and gets whatever he wants.’

‘That person…’ He pulls his arms through the sleeves carefully, tries not to pull too hard at his wound. ‘That person isn’t here right now.’

‘Then where is he?’

Jongdae looks up, sees Zitao half-hidden in shadow, watching him. ‘Are you looking for him?’

‘Yes.’

For a second, Jongdae flounders, doesn’t know what to say. Maybe when this was all over? When they had gone home? When he was dismissed from the Wei court’s service? He dresses himself back up, walks around to the side of the bed to slide under the blanket. ‘When I find him, I’ll pass on a message.’

Zitao scoffs. ‘So I’ll never meet him?’

‘I…’ He wasn’t ready for this line of questioning, doesn’t know what kind of reply that would appease Zitao when he was in one of his moods.

‘Nevermind,’ cuts in Zitao. ‘Rest. We can talk about what to do in the morning.’

-

They don’t talk much in the morning, because the morning is chaos.

‘What do you mean Luhan and Minshuo-jie are leaving?’ Zitao scowls at the servant who delivers the news and strides out of his room, uncaring that he hasn’t made himself up perfectly. The servant swallows and bows to Jongdae, scurrying away after Zitao.

Jongdae sits up, pushes himself on his feet. The wound stings, but there’s more important things to be doing. He dabs on a little of Zitao’s perfumes so that at least his scent can compensate for his bedraggled appearance.

The castle is in a commotion. Soldiers stride fast through the hallways and servants carry trays and furniture as they empty out the emperor of Shu’s rooms. Jongdae dodges past the moving bodies, trying to make his way to the centre of the manor where Yifan and Yixing would be. Zitao had strided out before Jongdae, which meant he was either with Yifan or Minseok - Jongdae would take the others.

‘The empress is still in her rooms,’ says one servant when Jongdae asks. He bypasses the main entrance to the court and goes down the hallway to the personal rooms of the Wu nobility. Several servants give him a side eye, but they’re too caught up in their tasks to stop him. After all, there were two very obvious guardsmen at the doors of Yixing’s room who cross their spears at the sight of him approaching.

‘Who are you,’ one of them snarls. ‘This is a restricted area. Leave before we throw you out.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Jongdae sharply, pulling out his diplomatic seal from his sleeve. ‘Tell your empress that Zhongda is at her door.’

The guards seems struck, but eventually one of them knocks. The door slides open enough for a servant to peek out, spot him, and turn around. A murmur of voices rise and fall before Yixing calls out, ‘let him in.’

If this was any other time, Jongdae would take his time observing the decor, the trinkets, the colours that make up an empress’ sitting room. The only thing he remembers from his visit is that it is all earth colours - green and white, deep brown and slate grey, so that when Yixing rises up to greet him, she seems to blossom open like a lotus on Jongdae’s muddied entrance.

‘Zhongda,’ she says, gesturing for him to sit at the table across from her. ‘So you’ve heard?’

‘You’re opening the gates for Luhan,’ he says, folding himself onto the cushion in relief as the ache in his side subsides. ‘You’re letting go a potential murderer.’

Yixing’s hair is undone, falling soft and endless over her shoulders and down her back. ‘But you didn’t die.’

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’

‘One would usually call that luck,’ she says. Her hands move to pour him out a cup of tea. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Do you really want me to talk amidst your company?’ He gestures to the servants scattered through the room, all engaged in other tasks as if they weren’t eavesdropping.

Yixing raises her eyebrows, but nods, gestures airily with a flick of her fingers. ‘You are all dismissed. Remove the guards as well.’

‘But empress - !’

‘You heard me.’

The servants are reluctant to go, the guards even more so, but eventually they leave the two alone. Jongdae watches Yixing drink the tea first, then takes a sip for himself. ‘So?’

Yixing watches him. ‘You’re quick.’

‘I haven’t figured it all out yet,’ he admits. ‘Are you going to finish the job here and now?’

‘You think I sent the assassin to kill you?’

‘It would be a perfect move for your husband - challenge the Wei court while it’s conquered a kingdom and recovers from a war.’ Jongdae slides his hands along the edge of the table, grips. ‘Two kingdoms, now one. If you attack Wei and win, you get all three, and ta-dah, the emperor and empress of a unified Heavenly Kingdom.’

Yixing smiles, a polite gesture. ‘We’re not all as bloodthirsty as you think.’

‘I’m sorry - maybe it wasn’t you specifically who hired the thug. I can talk to Yifan next to clarify.’

‘Have more tea,’ she urges quietly. ‘You’re getting worked up.’

Jongdae unclasps his grip from the table and folds his hands into his lap, reigns back his temper to at least _appear_ under control. The wound throbs under his robes.

‘It wasn’t me,’ she says finally. ‘I sent the guard.’

He looks up, surprised. ‘What?’

‘The guard - I had one posted for the four of you.’ Yixing draws up her sleeves to her elbows, her skin pale and delicate. ‘You were all being followed that night. After all, my spies in the Wei court tell me there is talks of a coup d’état, and I couldn’t risk Zitao or you making any unwarranted moves here in Jianye.’

‘Spies,’ echoes Jongdae humourlessly.

‘Instead of _being_ an assassin, you were attacked _by_ one.’ Her hands reach out, methodically begin clearing the table of the tea cups and tea tray, brushing aside the flower petals scattered along the gleaming wood. ‘My guard saved you but the assassin was killed before we could get any information. That means the real enemy is not you or the Wei court.’

She stands and takes a inkpot, brush, and paper from a small chest at the side of the room, brings it back to the table. ‘That leaves two suspects, doesn’t it? Luhan and, well, Yifan.’

‘There’s no advantage of Luhan provoking the Wei court,’ says Jongdae.

‘Isn’t there?’ Yixing opens up the inkpot, lets it air out, before picking up the brush. ‘He stops the peace talks just before they’re ratified, hence rendering all agreements null. Coincide this with the conveniently-timed coup d’état, and mayhaps an alliance is formed between the two kingdoms. The assassination of you or Zitao organized by the Shu then becomes a threat to the Wu court - we can sneak into your kingdom, your capital, kill someone close to you, and escape unscathed.’

‘But where your theory falls apart is that he isn’t allied with the clan that wants to snatch the throne.’

She is drawing something on the paper - in even, steady strokes of ink, slowly bringing an image to life under her attentive gaze. ‘Now I wouldn’t know that - my spies in the Shu court all had to return to me during the war. Zitao… is certainly _ruthless_ in battle, isn’t he?’

Jongdae wants to laugh. ‘He’s a prince of war. It’s what he knows best.’

‘He’s gotten more refined at speaking over the weeks, at least. Is that your tutelage?’

‘I won’t take all the credit.’

Yixing laughs, darting her glance up at him. ‘You might as well - he admires you, maybe more than he should. Are you teaching him or grooming him?’

He snorts. ‘I’m not your Yifan who proudly brings his mistress everywhere he goes.’

The words hit, has Yixing drop her mirth instantly and focus on her brushwork upon the paper. ‘You need to get out of here.’

‘And go where?’

Yixing puts down her brush and turns the paper around so it faces Jongdae. It’s a drawing of a map - Jianye neatly labeled above with paths and roadways elegantly curving along the ink. The Yangtze is a thicker brush stroke, sliding across the page entirely, and Yixing has kept the area around it curiously blank.

‘There is a safehouse in this village,’ she says, her finger sliding out from Jianye, arching off from the Yangtze to head northwest. There are three different roadways that leave from the city and intersect along each other to reach the village. ‘Ask for the seventh farmstead.’ Yixing draws away and goes to her trunk, flipping it open and drawing out a jade seal. ‘This will confirm you were sent by the Wu court and have the right to be there.’

‘You want me to sneak out,’ says Jongdae, blinking in surprise.

Yixing leaves the jade seal on top of the map, sitting down and pinning him down with a hard stare. ‘There hasn’t been an all-out war because you are still alive. Better you disappear rather than end up dead; at least it won’t give Zitao motivation to massacre this entire manor himself.’

‘You’re betraying the Wu by helping me.’ He pockets the jade seal, draws the map close and rolls it up. ‘If Yifan was the one who ordered my death…’

‘I haven’t figured it all out yet either,’ admits Yixing. ‘But I am not afraid taking a chance if I can see good come out of it.’

The sentence rings out between them, laden with meaning. Jongdae looks at her, smiles in sympathy. ‘Did you tell yourself the same when you let Yifan have a mistress?’

‘An heir is an heir is an heir,’ she replies, then gestures for him to leave. ‘Go - you don’t have much time.’

Jongdae stands, bows. ‘Empress.’

‘Zhongda,’ says Yixing in return. ‘Safe travels.’

-

With the map safely tucked next to his chest, Jongdae navigates his way back to his rooms, grabs a satchel to fill with his papers and some essentials - comb, small blade, some jewels to pawn off, and the remainder of his money. He’d change into farmtown clothes once he got to the village.

Taking the satchel, Jongdae darts back into the hall, strides towards Zitao’s room. He’s trying to move fast, but his wound slows him down, makes him sluggish with soreness. Still, Jongdae grits his teeth and bears through it. Yixing was right - they didn’t have much time before Yifan would close the city gates.

Zitao is within his room, dressed in a gold robe and holding a sheathed sword in his hand. He sees Jongdae, worry creasing his brow. ‘Where did you go?’

‘To see Yixing.’ Jongdae drops the satchel, moves towards Zitao’s trunk. ‘Listen, we have to go.’

‘Go where? Without proper supplies, we’ll die from the winter cold before we reach the Wu border.’

‘No - a safehouse.’ Jongdae pulls out the map, hands it over to Zitao. ‘Yixing is the one who sent the guard to protect me. She thinks I might still get killed and wants to hide me away. It’ll be easy to escape while Luhan and his escort get ready to leave. We don’t have much time.’

Zitao scans over the map, frown marring his features. ‘I will send you with a few of my personal guard.’

‘What?’ Jongdae looks up from where he’s going through Zitao’s trunk. ‘You’re coming with me, aren’t you?’ He shakes his head, and Jongdae stands up, confused. ‘You’re going to stay here?’

‘The point of hiding is so that no one knows where you are.’ Zitao raises his hand holding the sword. ‘I’m the most conspicuous one here.’

Jongdae knew this, but he still - there was some imagining, some avenue where he didn’t _leave_ Zitao, where they could leave together and be safe together. ‘I can’t leave you alone here - these nobles - ’

‘Didn’t you teach me how to handle them?’ He’s grinning, trying so hard to convince Jongdae it’s fine, it’s all fine, but it’s _not_.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ says Jongdae, stubborn, but Zitao ignores him and turns around, opens the door to talk to his guards. One of them nods and strides away. They were going to get ready to escort Jongdae out of the city without so much as a blink of an eye. ‘Prince. Are you listening to me?’

‘How will you get into the safehouse?’ Zitao asks, closing the door and looking at him, holding the map out. ‘This is a Wu court safehouse, not just for anyone to enter and use.’

Fumbling for a moment, Jongdae pulls out his diplomatic seal with the jade seal that Yixing had given him. Zitao props his sword against the wall and takes both seals in his hand, nodding to himself.

‘What?’ Jongdae presses. ‘What are you thinking?’

Wordlessly, Zitao hands back the jade seal along with the map. The diplomatic seal he clenches in his fist, mouth pressed in a tight line. ‘Take those and go to the stables. My guards should meet you and and escort you out.’

‘Prince.’ Jongdae tucks the map and seal away, flicks his gaze to the diplomatic seal he had received from the Wei court still held in Zitao’s hand. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Stall.’ He licks his mouth. ‘News of the attack were sent out only a few hours after you’d been knifed. The courts are probably reacting now. I need to stay and pretend everything is at least a little bit fine until we get news as to what the Shu and Wei court have decided. Either tomorrow or the day after, we’ll know.’

‘You will be _killed_ ,’ Jongdae snaps. ‘Yixing suspects her own damn husband for the attack.’

Zitao scoffs, picking up his sword again. With a smooth motion, he unsheathes it, lets the naked blade gleam in the light. ‘No one is going to kill me, Zhongda-ge.’ He flicks his wrist and the blade slices through the air, deadly. ‘Not if I get to them first.’

Jongdae swallows, clenches his jaw. ‘I won’t leave.’

‘You have to.’ Nodding to himself, Zitao lets the diplomatic seal drop to his feet, stepping back and observing it idly. ‘I officially dismiss you from the service of the Wei court.’

‘What - ’

The sword sings as Zitao brings it down, cracks the seal right in half with the hit. He hums in satisfaction and sheathes his sword, looking up at Jongdae with an expectant expression on his face. ‘Well? Leave, Jin Zhongda. I have no use of your services.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ says Jongdae, feeling much too slow to comprehend what just happened. ‘You can’t.’

Zitao kicks at one of the pieces of the seal. ‘I just did.’

‘Prince - Zitao - you - ’ Jongdae stares at him, wide-eyed, _terrified_. ‘These people are ruthless, they’ll feed you lines, they’ll hurt you - fuck, Zitao I can’t fucking _leave_ you here.’

Not even pleading seems to get to him. ‘I thought I dismissed you, Zhongda-ge.’

The words sting, has a flare of frustration and anger bloom hot in Jongdae’s chest. He strides over to his satchel, pulls it over his shoulder, away from the side that’s still bandaged. Taking a step towards the door, Jongdae clenches his jaw, _hates_ that this is suddenly goodbye, that this is the last that he might ever see of Zitao. The future was nebulous here on out - even Jongdae could not have predicted these factors, prepared for them in any way.

He turns back on his heel, goes toward to Zitao instead. ‘Yesterday, you asked where he was - the other me, the one that isn’t your advisor.’

Zitao doesn’t reply - he’s standing stock-still, muscles seemingly pulled tight, like he’s more ready for Jongdae to hit him rather than talk to him.

‘Well, I’m here,’ he says, voice rough. ‘So is there anything you’d like to ask?’

For a moment, he thinks Zitao won’t say anything, but then Zitao’s previous sternness cracks, his expression now just a little pained, vulnerable; his voice soft. ‘Did you ever want me?’

‘Oh,’ exhales Jongdae, ‘more than you even know.’

Even overwhelmed, Zitao is careful with Jongdae when he pulls him close with a hand on Jongdae’s waist, meeting his mouth halfway with a muffled desperate noise. When Jongdae reaches up, claws his nails into the skin of Zitao’s nape, Zitao gasps, manages to deepen the kiss with his mouth open and wet. And Jongdae kisses right back - wants to remember this, burn this into his memory: the way Zitao shivers, his small noises, all his strength melting underneath Jongdae’s want.

All he can think about is how pliant, gorgeous Zitao is, how he would be so, _so_ easy to own if Jongdae asked, if Zitao accepted to be kept. It has his nails digging just a little bit harder, feeling the way Zitao whines against him, clinging to him, _wanting_ him. He sucks hard on Zitao’s bottom lip before pulling away, wanting to imprint the image of Zitao with a flush on his cheeks, his cat eyes half-lidded in want, how his mouth is slick and pink, begging to be kissed again.

‘You need to go,’ says Zitao first, voice just a little hoarse. His shoulders are tense under the gold silk of his robes, with his hand clutching tightly around the handle of his sword at his side, the broken pieces of the diplomatic seal still at his feet - all of him trapped in the wrappings of his station, of his responsibilities.

‘You know where to find me,’ says Jongdae in lieu of goodbye and walks out of the room without looking back.

-

**I.**

The farmstead is always cold in the mornings, waiting for Jongdae to wake up and start a fire from the kindling of the night before. He works patiently to get the first few sparks until the tinder catches and throws on an extra layer of robes, looking for the pot and some tea leaves.

It has been two weeks since him and a small retinue of soldiers have started living here. Two of the soldiers keep watch outside, where the winter cold chills their bones, and the rest sleep in the room next to Jongdae’s, presumably to guard him.

Jongdae boils the water and the tea leaves before inviting the soldiers on watch back inside. They nod gratefully, shivering and unwinding next to the heat of the fire pit. They drink tea and don’t comment as Jongdae starts making the rice gruel. One of them leaves to tell two other guards to take watch.

Stripped of all its furnishings, the farmstead is bare and cold, but still a welcome relief from the days of riding they had to do to get here. It reminds Jongdae of a temple - where the wind is the loudest voice amidst the walls and emptiness awaits to be filled by devotees.

The small town of Bengbu lies to the northeast of Jianye, reached by going upriver the Huai for a few days. When Jongdae had flashed his court seal from Yixing at the Jianye guards, they had let him and Zitao’s soldiers through without question, and the Bengbu townsfolk didn’t bother with the obviously dangerous folk at the edges of their farmland.

It was quiet, cold, isolated. When Jongdae went into town, blinking snowflakes out of his eyelashes as he procured preserved meats and dried herbs, the townsfolk took his money without question and shook their heads when he asked them of news. They didn’t know anything - at least they wouldn’t until the trade routes opened up again in the spring and the merchants could bring news from town to town again.

All Jongdae could do was put himself to work - stripped of his nobility and and rank, left to use his hands for something more than writing. He carefully tried to keep his wound closed and disinfected, and occupied most of his time with cooking and cleaning, chatting the soldiers as they got used to him in Zitao’s stead.

‘Master Zhongda,’ one of them starts just then, breaking Jongdae out of his thoughts. ‘Should I wake the others?’

‘Bring them in here,’ says Jongdae. It had been two weeks and even if he doesn’t have news, he can make guesses. By now, news must have reached the Wei court that an assassination attempt had been made against them and their prince was in danger. Luhan and Minseok should be back at the Shu court if they were on their own, not having to slow down due to their escort. Yifan and Yixing would be at odds, and the inner court nobles in Wu would be in a state of unrest.

If Jongdae hadn’t been attacked yet, then it was unlikely they’d make a move now - and his wound was healing enough for him to start riding long distances back to the Wei court. It was time to move before his tiny bit of influence got overruled by the other parties. And Zitao… Zitao could defend himself.

The soldiers take time to gather - enough for Jongdae to finish breakfast and serve up more tea. The room has filled up with the warmth of the fire and seems to relax the soldiers as they settle down to eat. Seeing them all dressed in their armour and swords resting at their sides, Jongdae feels a certain ease in his chest - Zitao _would_ tell his retinue to always stay armed while with Jongdae.

Just as Jongdae starts to speak, one of the soldiers on watch slides open the door, a grave expression on their face. ‘A group rides this way quickly.’

‘A group?’ Jongdae asks, but the others are already standing up, hooking their swords onto their hips.

‘Stay inside, Master Zhongda,’ one of the others instructs.

‘But who are they?’

The soldier on watch shakes their head. ‘It’s hard to tell from this distance, but - ’

Jongdae stares them down. ‘Go on.’

‘The armour seems to be of the Wu court.’

The words have the soldiers moving even faster now. The tension only mounts and Jongdae sucks in a sharp breath of surprise, looking around as the handful of soldiers square their shoulders for battle. ‘I can call for a negotiation,’ he starts, hurriedly trying to think of a way to avoid the battle. If the Wei court had sent soldiers, that meant that something must have happened to Zitao. But he still had Yixing’s court seal and he could buy time and information with it.

‘The Commander ordered us to keep you safe,’ says another soldier, voice stern.

‘That doesn’t mean I’m useless,’ snaps Jongdae, but he’s entirely ignored. Figures that anything Zitao had said would promptly overrule all of Jongdae’s ideas. Perhaps they had even been warned about it. Jongdae retreats deeper into the farmstead, looking for the court seal that he had hidden under one of the decaying floorboards.

Dimly, he can hear the thunder of hoofbeats approaching, feels his heart in his throat and a sharp stab of nostalgia in his gut. It was five years ago again, back in Hanzhong, listening to Zitao’s cavalry come riding closer and closer to the town. Jongdae had been hiding in the temple with the other nobles - swallowing down his terror under a layer of anger, tried to think of utterly _profane_ it would be for Zitao to storm into a temple and kill them, so they were safe, they were _safe_ -

He’s not safe now. The winter wind screams between the walls of the farmstead, not loud enough to mask the dozens of horses that must have stomped through the snow into the courtyard where Zitao’s soldiers stood, ready to kill for Jongdae’s safety.

Jongdae grabs the seal and tucks it into his sleeve. He moves quickly through to the back where there is a small chicken coop, looking for a place to hide. They wouldn’t get him - not when he _had_ to survive, at least for Zitao, to make sure the Wei court would know all that had happened during their stay.

A yell echoes out, followed with a clang of steel against steel. Jongdae freezes, listening for a little too long to the sounds of the fighting. A horse screams - presumably cut down - and the yelling seems to double in its loudness, seems to grow even closer to the farmstead. The retinue must’ve been holding a line, wouldn’t let any of the Wu court soldiers past the courtyard to find Jongdae inside. He has to survive - he _has_ to, if only for them.

Just as he continues looking for a hiding spot, the fighting seems to echo and grow, engulf all the air around Jongdae. He can hear the steel, the yells, the screams so much more distinctly than his heartbeat, his breathing - all of him sensitized to imagining how the scene must be playing out. Would Zitao’s retinue hold against an armed group of riders? Would they be overwhelmed? If the Wu soldiers hadn’t stormed into the farmstead in a tearing of wood and clatter of boots yet, then surely the fighting was going against them.

Suddenly, a cheer echoes out - loud, clear, like the ringing of a bell. Jongdae stills, awaits the inevitable sounds of the front door being smashed open, but instead the fighting only seems to intensify in its noise.

Why the cheer then - unless some saving grace had shown up -

Before he even knows it, he’s stumbling his way to the front of the farmstead, past the various empty, rotting walls, the soldiers’ sleeping quarters, his own room. There’s a twisting in his gut, pushes him into the room where the fire pit is dying down into a pile of grey ash, where the breakfast is half-eaten and abandoned, where the sliding door leads right onto the terrace that faces that courtyard.

This close and the cacophony of battle threatens to overwhelm. Jongdae can only stare at the straight wood paneling of the door as he listens to the dying screams of soldiers and horses alike. There is only carnage outside, past the threshold, where Jongdae doesn’t belong.

No. He knows who reigns there - amidst the adrenaline and blood and guts.

The door slides open and in stumbles a woman. Jongdae catches her out of sheer surprise, hands on her arms and pulling her close so she can regain her balance. It takes him a moment to even notice who she is - with her silk robes and long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders in a tangled mess.

‘Zhongda,’ she says first, breathless but still composed, even with all that was going around her.

Jongdae lets go of her and steps back, bowing. ‘Empress Yixing.’

When she finally moves to the side, he sees the figure in the doorway, standing utterly still with a sword streaked in blood. Even covered in blood and gore and splatters of mud and the slush of the snow, Zitao is absolutely, utterly beautiful.

Dimly, Jongdae is aware that Zitao is speaking, gesturing, the sounds of the fighting beginning to cease as his surviving retinue come around him to pay their respects, listen to his commands. There are two soldiers escorting Yixing deeper into the farmstead and others tending to the wounded. Of the Wu soldiers, there is only one survivor. Zitao’s voice is cool, direct: ‘Tie him up somewhere, I’ll deal with him later.’

All of this seems to happen in a minute, maybe two, but Jongdae can’t process properly just yet - too caught up in a shock of déjà-vu as he stares at Zitao, blood-splattered and deadly. This is how they had first met, five years ago, in the main temple at Hanzhong. The war prince had slid open the door and walked through first, holding a sword that left a trail of blood as he walked towards the statues of the gods, at where Jongdae stood, with his angry challenging stare. If Jongdae couldn’t escape, if he had to die, then he at least wanted to know if Zitao would profane sacred ground with a kill.

That anger, that terror - it escapes him now, is nowhere to be found. Instead, Jongdae could choke on the relief that floods his body, has him feeling weak with how _happy_ he is that Zitao is here.

‘Zhongda-ge,’ he says quietly, taking a step closer, then another.

Jongdae can’t move, couldn’t even if he tried. ‘Zitao.’

The sword clatters onto the floorboards and Zitao is rushing forward, his gloved fingers taking a hold of Jongdae’s jaw, angling him for a kiss that makes their teeth click together. Jongdae doesn’t care, feels the blood under his palms when he grabs onto Zitao’s armour, tries to drag him closer, as Zitao mewls into his mouth. The kiss is too wet, too sloppy - it only lasts a few seconds before Zitao has to pull away, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline and bloodlust and _want_.

‘Here, here,’ says Jongdae, leading him deeper into the farmstead, to his room. Zitao goes, one of his hands clamped tightly over Jongdae’s arm, unwilling to let go. The door barely has time to slide shut before Zitao is on him again, kissing with a desperation that Jongdae reciprocates.

He grabs at the pieces of the armour, tugging hard until Zitao knocks his hands away and begins taking it off himself. Jongdae is left standing there as Zitao drops the gore-stained armour onto the floorboards, the thick undershirt as well, so that he stands - looking dangerous, strong - in just his pants fastened at his waist, cock hard underneath.

There’s still blood dried over Zitao’s cheek and bruises blooming over his torso, only highlighting the movement of his muscles as he steps closer to Jongdae, eyes unblinking and intense. _A war prince_ , thinks Jongdae faintly. Zitao, who exudes power, who could threaten to overwhelm Jongdae entirely.

The last thing he expects is for Zitao to kneel at his feet.

‘Prince,’ says Jongdae sharply, surprised, but Zitao only grabs onto his thighs over Jongdae’s robes, grips tight as he looks up.

‘I’m not your prince anymore,’ he says, pinning Jongdae down with his gaze.

Jongdae swallows but doesn’t move away, not even when Zitao’s hands slide upwards, peel off the layers of robes off Jongdae carefully. The clothes pool all around his ankles, where Zitao still kneels, and Jongdae can’t help it - reaches out a hand to cup Zitao’s cheek, run his thumb softly over the skin. Zitao leans into the touch, stretches his neck forward so he breathes over Jongdae’s half-hard cock, still watching up from beneath his lashes at Jongdae.

Sliding his fingers into Zitao’s sweat-damp hair, another reminder of Zitao’s strength, his physicality, Jongdae murmurs, ‘then what are you?’

Zitao blinks slowly, arching cat-like and indulgent, before nuzzling his cheek against Jongdae’s cock. ‘Yours.’

A rush of heat pools into Jongdae’s stomach, has his mouth go dry. ‘Yeah? All of this,’ he curls his fingers, takes a grip in Zitao’s hair, ‘is for me? Mine?’

‘Everything,’ he replies, dropping his mouth open to drag his tongue along Jongdae’s dick, wet and hot, before closing his lips around the crown in a hard suck.

‘ _Fuck_.’ Jongdae watches as Zitao takes his cock deeper into his mouth, still gazing upwards, watching Jongdae’s reactions. A prince shouldn’t be sucking dick, anyone’s dick, but neither should he be kneeling and offering himself up to some third-rate noble, giving over all his power for Jongdae to take, to _use_.

Zitao makes a surprised noise when Jongdae’s hips cant forward, has the head of his cock bumping against Zitao’s throat. For a moment, Jongdae thinks of pulling away - that Zitao isn’t ready to be pushed yet  - but then Zitao is moaning, lashes drooping as he concentrates on Jongdae’s cock, beginning to bob his head as he keeps sucking.

His mouth is wet and warm, so fucking good around Jongdae’s dick, and Jongdae is hissing every time Zitao moans, feels it in his balls. ‘S’good, just like that, yeah.’ Zitao swallows around his cock in reply, blinking up at him as he brings his hands up, holds onto Jongdae’s thighs for balance. ‘Fuck, you look so good sucking my dick.’

He doesn’t expect Zitao to press forward, trying to deepthroat his cock. Of course Zitao chokes, pulling back for air, before trying again. Jongdae fists Zitao’s hair, can’t help how he pushes Zitao’s head down just a little, and moans when Zitao gags over the crown. He lets go soon enough and pulls his cock out, letting it gleam wet with spit and precome. ‘Don’t force yourself.’

Zitao coughs again, brows pulled together in stubbornness. ‘I want to.’

Jongdae wants to coo, but settles with holding his cock at the base and cupping Zitao’s cheek, smearing the head along Zitao’s swollen bottom lip. The reaction is instantaneous - Zitao’s tongue is darting out, flicking along the ridge as he tries to suck on the tip, whines when Jongdae pulls away again. ‘I’ll let you practice later,’ says Jongdae softly, ‘since this mouth is all mine, isn’t it?’

A shiver runs through Zitao as he nods, turns his head into Jongdae’s palm until he’s nosing at the fingers, eventually taking two into his mouth and sucking.

‘ _Fuck_ , you want it,’ groans Jongdae, pressing his fingers down onto Zitao’s tongue, listening to him moan. ‘Want me to fuck you? Fill you up?’

Zitao nods, pulling off quickly just to beg, ‘please, ge, Zhongda-ge - ’

He doesn’t even get to time finish before Jongdae is pushing him down onto his back against the small bed, undoing the tie of his pants and pulling them off entirely. Zitao is hard, leaking, and already arching for Jongdae to touch him. It’s impossible to deny him; Jongdae kisses him and drags his nails down Zitao’s chest hard enough to leave marks. Zitao hisses but doesn’t stop him, _takes it_ like he’d take _anything_ from Jongdae, and the thought knocks the breath out of Jongdae.

Pulling away, Jongdae finds the lantern in the room and opens it up, smearing his fingers with the oil. When he turns back, Zitao has settled onto his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Jongdae with sheer want.

Later, Jongdae will take his time, savour what it means to _have_ Zitao, to see how much Zitao is willing to receive, to _give_ , to know what it’s like to have the future emperor of the Kingdom of Heaven on his knees, begging for Jongdae to grace him with attention.

 _Now_ , he just wanted to _take_ \- greedy and fast, needing to make sure Zitao would remember who he belongs to by the end.

The oil lets him slide two fingers into Zitao easily, stretching him open with quick, short thrusts that have Zitao jerking forward, little moans punched out of him each time. He doesn’t expect Zitao to already be riding back onto his hand, sure that the stretch has to burn, but Zitao doesn’t seem to care as he mewls, ‘please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me - ’

‘Can you take it?’ Jongdae pulls his hand away, jerking his dick to spread the slickness. He notches the head of his cock against Zitao’s hole, pushes in just a little, enough to make Zitao feel it, say no, he needs more prep, but -

‘Yes, yes, _yes_ ,’ Zitao moans, pushing his hips back, stretching out his asshole over Jongdae’s cock. ‘Fuck me - _please_ \- wanna feel it.’

Jongdae groans as the tight heat of Zitao’s ass drags against his dick, can feel the impatient twitch of Zitao’s hips as he tries to ride down, tries to get Jongdae deeper. Gripping Zitao’s hips, Jongdae makes him still and pumps his cock in short, careful jerks until he’s balls deep, moaning at how fucking _good_ it felt to be inside Zitao and listen to his pretty whines. ‘Like this?’ He draws back, fucks in hard enough for Zitao to wail. ‘You want it like this?’

‘Yes,’ he sobs, hands sliding out underneath him so he drops to his elbows, clenching his ass around Jongdae’s cock, ‘ _please_.’

Jongdae replies with another hard fuck, holding on tight to Zitao’s hips so he can properly pound into his ass, rough and mean and clearly exactly what Zitao wanted as he moans loudly, head thrown back with how good it feels. ‘You’re just so perfect,’ says Jongdae, almost in disbelief. ‘Wanting - _fuck_ \- to be used by me even like this.’

Zitao is nodding, pleading, ‘yours, ‘m yours - ’ when his voice breaks over a wail, ‘make me yours.’

Letting go one of Zitao’s hips, Jongdae reaches out and fists his fingers in Zitao’s hair, wrenches his head back so Zitao is forced to arch onto Jongdae’s cock. Like this, the angle becomes perfect, has Jongdae nailing into Zitao’s prostate with each thrust so that Zitao is crying out, hands scrabbling against the blanket for a grip as he gets fucked.

‘I bet they can all hear you now,’ says Jongdae, more than pleased at how Zitao’s voice was drowning out even the filthy sounds of Jongdae’s balls slapping against Zitao’s ass. ‘Getting fucked and loving it.’ Zitao sobs then tries to muffle himself, keep his noises in his throat, and Jongdae clicks his tongue in disapproval. ‘I want them to hear.’ He grinds hard into Zitao’s ass, has Zitao letting out a long, low whine. ‘I want them to know.’

Zitao is trembling now, looking so gorgeous at Jongdae’s mercy, even the muscles along his shoulder blades moving in tune with each fuck - tensing as Jongdae pounds in, loosening when his cock drags along the rim back out. ‘Ge, Zhongda-ge,’ gasps out Zitao, his voice utterly ruined, not even begging for anything except acknowledgement as he takes Jongdae’s dick.

‘Yes,’ he hisses, works his hips hard, fucks Zitao as he deserves. ‘Crown prince and commander and _all - fucking - mine_.’

‘ _Ge_ \- !,’ and Zitao is pushing back, grinding up on Jongdae’s cock, ass going so fucking tight, as he _shakes_ , barely managing the words, ‘I - c-close - ’

‘What’s that,’ he croons, waiting until Zitao relaxes before fucking him again. ‘Want to come?’

‘N-No,’ mewls Zitao, still trembling as he takes each thrust, ‘yes, _fuck_ , want you, ge, w-want you to come b-but - ’ He cuts off when Jongdae nails into him, knuckles whitening as he clutches onto the blanket underneath him, all of him so ready to come from just Jongdae’s dick working his ass but holding out - holding out for fucking _permission_.

‘Fuck,’ groans Jongdae, feeling his own orgasm build in his balls, ‘fuck, c’mon, come on my cock, Zitao, do it.’ He holds onto Zitao’s hair, his fingers leaving bruises on Zitao’s hip, and he makes sure not to break rhythm as he pounds into him, feels how Zitao’s ass milks his dick with how close he is to coming. ‘Just like this - so gorgeous and all for me.’

‘Zhongda-ge, _fuck_ , oh - oh fuck,’ hiccups Zitao before he finally gives in, his orgasm rippling through the muscles along his back until his ass clenches hard over Jongdae’s cock, coming in long pulses as he trembles, trying to keep himself upright despite the grip in his hair.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs, watching as Zitao finally relaxes, panting hard, ‘so fucking perfect.’ Zitao whines in reply, canting his hips back, deliberately fucking himself over Jongdae’s still-hard cock in quick, sharp motions. ‘Want me to come inside of you?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ replies Zitao breathlessly, ‘yours, yours, _yours_.’

Letting go of Zitao’s hair, Jongdae sinks his nails into the skin over Zitao’s hips and pitches forward, has Zitao’s knees sliding apart and his head dropping forward so his cheek ends up crushed against the blanket of the bed. ‘Then take it.’

It’s so easy to use Zitao - Jongdae keeps a hold over Zitao’s hips, knowing it was only his grip that kept Zitao’s ass up, and fucks him, feels how warm and tight his ass is even after coming, all that delicious friction along the length of Jongdae’s cock.

But it’s how Zitao looks that does Jongdae in - has him groaning as he takes in the way Zitao’s eyes are so dark and hooded, his mouth open as he breathlessly tries to whine while Jongdae’s cock pounds into him. All of him so, so ready to be used at Jongdae’s behest, not satisfied until Jongdae’s done, not wanting to be done until he’s taken everything Jongdae gives.

‘Mine,’ he snarls, fierce and possessive and _desperate_ , and comes, listening to Zitao moan loudly when he realizes Jongdae is still inside of him, filling him up with his load. Jongdae rides it out in a long grind, hips flexing to make sure Zitao’s ass has all of his come, before finally pulling out slow and careful. He’s almost in awe at how flushed pink Zitao’s hole is, smeared in oil and sweat and still loose enough that Jongdae knows Zitao will feel Jongdae’s come slide out of him for the rest of the day.

Finally, Zitao slumps flat on the bed, clearly uncaring of his own spunk, and Jongdae carefully tugs the blanket from out underneath him, drawing it over them both when he lies down beside Zitao. It seems almost unconscious - how Zitao curves an arm around Jongdae’s waist and drags him that much closer, mouth tucked against Jongdae’s temple like a whisper of a kiss.

‘Won’t leave again,’ he mumbles, sleepy, sated. ‘Not without you. ‘m yours.’

‘Yes,’ manages Jongdae around the sudden knot in his throat, feeling something too close to vulnerability, and curls into Zitao for sleep.

-

He wakes up a couple hours later, blinking blearily for a second until he remembers what just happened. Across from him sits Zitao, dressed back in his thick shirt and pants, cleaning the dried blood and gore off his armour in repetitive, even motions. It seems almost meditative, and Jongdae doesn’t want to break Zitao’s concentration, lying there quiet and still as he watches.

Still, Zitao has always had keen instincts - flicks his gaze over to meet Jongdae only a few seconds later and smiling sweet and warm. ‘Ge.’ He sets the armour aside and leans forward, one hand on the floorboards for balance while the other reaches out. Jongdae doesn’t even think as he props himself up on an elbow to try and meet him halfway, feeling his chest tighten when Zitao kisses him softly, reverently.

‘Zitao,’ he murmurs after Zitao pulls away, but he has nothing to stay. Just tastes the name on his tongue, no more titles to attach to it, except one. ‘My Zitao.’

‘Yes,’ says Zitao, so obviously pleased with his bright grin, something like a purr rumbling through him as he nuzzles against Jongdae’s cheek.

It’s ticklish, distracting. ‘Stop that.’ But there’s no heat behind the words and Zitao only seems to be encouraged, skating his mouth over Jongdae’s cheekbone and suddenly biting the shell of his ear. Jongdae yelps in surprise, elbow slipping out underneath him, and finds himself sprawled out like a fool, legs still in bed and torso on the floorboards, as Zitao sits back up and laughs delightedly. ‘You _brat_.’

‘ _Your_ brat,’ says Zitao, still laughing, and Jongdae is helpless, feels himself soften instantly, still in awe that he’s _allowed_ this, that Zitao has gladly given up power and titles all for Jongdae.

‘Yeah,’ he sighs, puts on an annoyed expression even if he feels the exact opposite. Of course Zitao doesn’t fall for it if his grin is any indication. ‘Now are you going to tell me what Yixing is doing here?’

‘You just woke up and you’re already so serious,’ says Zitao, rolling his eyes, as he stands up to fetch Jongdae’s robes that he’d stripped out of earlier. Jongdae waits until Zitao settles in front of him, drawing the first layer of cloth around Jongdae’s shoulders, obviously intent on dressing him as he talks. ‘After you and Luhan left, the Wu court was in an uproar. The peace treaty had fallen through and the Shu and Wei courts had sent their replies to the news of your attempted assassination. I stalled for as long as I could to see if anyone would slip up and admit to trying to kill you.’

Zitao quiets for a moment, mouth tightening at the corners. ‘Then more news kept coming in as the days passed. My - The Emperor and Empress of Wei court have been imprisoned. The Wu clan has taken power in the court and Shixun sits on the throne.’

Jongdae keeps silent as Zitao folds the collar of his robes carefully, clearly trying to choose his words. ‘I… thought of you,’ he says finally, hands  falling away into Jongdae’s lap, curling around Jongdae’s fingers for a grip. ‘What you said - if I couldn’t be a step ahead of them, I needed to be a step above. I needed leverage.’

His hands are steady, warm, calloused. Jongdae can feel the years of training on Zitao’s palms, thinks someone with such rough hands shouldn’t have such a soft heart.

‘So, I took Yixing,’ he says, seemingly embarrassed as he ducks his head. ‘I don’t know if that’s the best move or not, but - well. I just knew that the Wu court wouldn’t risk attacking me if they risked hurting their own Empress. And Yixing agreed, so it wasn’t really much of a kidnapping.’

Jongdae nods, squeezing Zitao’s hands between his own. ‘You did well.’

‘Yeah?’ He peeks upwards, a little surprised at the compliment, and Jongdae can’t help but smile, helplessly fond.

‘Yeah.’

Zitao’s lashes flutter, pleased, and leans forward almost shyly to kiss Jongdae again. Again that softness, that reverence - like Zitao is savouring the gesture, humming when Jongdae presses back. He breaks the kiss a moment later but stays close, tucking himself in the crook of Jongdae’s neck. ‘After the Wu court noticed Yixing was gone, they sent soldiers after us. Some of them rode ahead to this farmstead and probably noticed my guard, decided to kill them while I was still busy trying to get the other soldiers off our trail.’

‘But you came just in time.’

‘Yeah,’ says Zitao, voice low, mouth skimming along the tendon of Jongdae’s throat. ‘In time to kill anyone who would touch you.’ His teeth catch against the skin, but don’t sink in until Jongdae arches his neck in permission. It was only fair.

-

It takes another day to recuperate. Jongdae helps to pack up and prepare for another journey - this time to Wuhan. Yixing is left alone with two of Zitao’s soldiers as guards, but she seems mostly content to sit near the fire to keep warm. Zitao himself fetches supplies from Bengbu and makes sure all those who were injured are treated properly. The enemy Wu soldiers lay dead and frozen in the snow but Zitao takes the time to clean and dress the bodies of his own retinue that had been killed in the fight.

At dawn, he lies their bodies out in the main room of the farmstead and sends a prayer to the gods of Earth and Time, then sets the farmstead on fire entirely, watching it burn for a few long minutes. The other soldiers bow to the fallen, Jongdae and Yixing following suit, before Zitao orders them all to start moving.

The trip to Wuhan takes a week and a half which means that Jongdae has more than enough time to catch up with Yixing and the current court movements.

‘You’ve probably heard the rumours, haven’t you?’ Yixing asks him one night while they’re camped out in an empty barn. The fire illuminates her face, shows the fatigue under her eyes and the tenseness in her jaw, but still, she remains composed, beautiful. ‘Of my marriage and of Junmian.’

‘I have an idea,’ replies Jongdae carefully. ‘After a few years of marriage and no heir, it’s not surprising for the Emperor to take a consort in hopes for at least a bastard.’

‘Or magic,’ interjects Zitao, his head pillowed in Jongdae’s lap, purring as Jongdae scratches at a spot behind his ear.

Yixing blinks then laughs, surprised. ‘Or magic. I guess I should have considered that option.’

‘But,’ starts Jongdae, ‘there’s no bastard either, is there?’

The question has her sigh, nodding, as she looks deep into the fire. ‘Yifan had not been a popular choice as the new Emperor, but I had blood ties through many of the inner court nobles, so marrying me was a way of solidifying his rulership.

‘We had been married for about five years with still no child when Junmian appeared, near the start of the war between Wei and Shu.’

Zitao has gone quiet, stopping Jongdae’s hand by tangling their fingers together, as they both watch Yixing from across the fire.

Yixing furrows her brow. ‘She had been an obvious choice for a consort. Junmian was beautiful, had the Jin family name which meant her bloodline was old and respected, and maybe most importantly, she treated me very well. Yifan - he… doesn’t do well with conflict; it’s why our marriage was so quick to appease his court, and he was ready to accept a consort immediately after seeing that Junmian and I got along fine.

‘And Junmian, she got… pregnant so quickly.’ Yixing shakes her head, but her expression is still thoughtful. ‘I’ve never experienced it so maybe I’m misjudging, but… looking back on it, she showed signs very soon, too soon.

‘At the time, of course, Yifan and I were simply relieved that at least a bastard might come out of this. Then, during that summer, the war broke out across the border, and the child… was lost.’

‘Five years ago,’ supplies Jongdae quietly.

Yixing nods. ‘Yes. After that… Junmian, she became much more than consort. She became an advisor - from the bedroom to the court. Over the course of the war, she became close to Yifan and promised him a child after the war was over. It was the stress of knowing the child could be in danger that had caused the loss in the first place. Once the kingdoms had settled, it would be time to try again - and the child could be raised in an era of peace.’

‘Pretty words from a pretty face,’ says Jongdae, trying to reassure. ‘Especially when it’s about the future of the Wu court.’

‘Beautiful and cunning with a taste for those in power,’ muses Yixing, looking up from the fire to Jongdae with a half-smile. ‘The Jin bloodline is dangerous.’

Jongdae flicks his gaze down at Zitao still in his lap, his hand curled around Zitao’s and resting along the dip of Zitao’s collarbone, but faces Yixing head-on. ‘Isn’t that why you sent me away to hide - so you could have one of us on your side for later?’

Yixing takes the blow with grace, laughing softly. ‘Now here I am, confessing.’

He nods. ‘You stopped Yifan and Junmian from killing me after all.’

Zitao shifts, eyes reflecting the flickering flames as he watches Yixing. ‘Thank you,’ he says, serious, sincere.

‘Of course,’ replies Yixing softly. ‘Now help me save my kingdom.’

-

Wuhan is a sizeable town found along the Yangtze, near the border between Shu and Wu kingdoms. Though they have been travelling exclusively through the Wu territory, no other Wu soldiers had been sent after them. Clearly Yifan was waiting for terms in exchange for his Empress and didn’t want to risk getting Yixing killed in a skirmish between his soldiers and Zitao’s retinue.

As far as leverage went, Jongdae had to admit Zitao had picked the most effective person possible.

Yixing’s blood ties to the inner court nobles meant if she did die, Yifan’s support would fall through almost instantly. After all, if he could get his Empress killed, clearly he did not have any qualms killing anyone else, and no noble wanted to stick around to find out. With no Empress to tie them to the court Emperor _and_ to have some consort on the throne as her replacement, would cause an uproar and desertion. If Yifan wanted to keep his power, he simply couldn’t risk Yixing getting hurt - he had to accept whatever demands were asked of him.

So far Zitao had sent none. They had an appointment in Wuhan to keep and didn’t have time to negotiate with the Wu court. That would come later, if Jongdae’s suspicions were right.

The largest inn is easy to find - one of the taller buildings in Wuhan, overlooking the frozen curve of the river. Zitao slides extra coins over to the owner for privacy before heading up the stairs to the highest floor, Jongdae and Yixing following, as the retinue stay below and settle into the few available rooms.

Jongdae briefly wonders if they should at least wash up from their journey, dress in something that isn’t their riding clothes - made of fur and thick, practical layers to ward off the winter cold - but it’s too late by the time Zitao strides towards the sliding door and opens it without even a warning.

Inside is a finely furnished tea room, with low tables and wall hangings depicting the Yangtze in the height of summer, surrounded by flora and fauna. The pillows are edged with embroidery and the lamps that hang in the corners of the room is ornately carved and painted, at least imitating the look of a noble’s tea room.

Inside there are already two people seated at the table, unsurprised at Zitao’s rude entrance. Only one of them stands up to greet the visitors, and Jongdae feels relief that Minseok looks just the same - still beautiful and put-together, if a bit tired around the edges. Next to her, Luhan watches them all but at least pours out the tea to serve them as they sit.

They sit after perfunctory greetings - Jongdae and Zitao across from Luhan and Minseok, with Yixing at the head between them both.

‘You look much better,’ says Minseok after a beat, her expression softening. ‘We were worried.’

Luhan even nods, jaw clenched, and Jongdae feels the tightness between his shoulders loosen a little. ‘I’m okay - it’s healing. I’ll be okay.’

‘Still,’ she says, quietly insistent in a way that is uniquely Minseok. ‘You’re still family. So don’t go dying on us.’

‘Yeah,’ replies Jongdae, voice going rough, and he’s not even embarrassed. This much vulnerability he can allow, feeling safe between Minseok and Luhan and Zitao in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long, long while. ‘I - yeah. I won’t.’

He can feel Zitao’s eyes on him, the heat of his frame seated so close next to Jongdae, and Jongdae is sure they can all pick up on the sheer possessiveness that leaks out from Zitao. It’s reassuring, if nothing else.

Before the silence can settle, Luhan cuts in loud and quick: ‘well, let’s get it done.’

Minseok produces two copies of the peace treatise from the Wu court, the last few clauses filled up already. Jongdae slides one over, flicking over the familiar phrases at the beginning before finally checking as to how the last bits of it had been concluded. It’s surprisingly fair - Luhan is willing fork over the money to dress his own soldiers in Wei court colours, but anything involving the monitoring of systems and placing soldiers along the trade routes for increased safety would be covered by the Wei treasury. Border tariffs would be removed in exchange for paying the tri-annual tithe and Shu retained their right to manage their trade profits in exchange for a cut.

Reading it over, Jongdae is positive Minseok must have argued day and night with Luhan to have such a fair compromise. He would be a fool to dispute any of this. Beside him, Zitao hums in agreement, also seemingly surprised that Luhan had allowed for this to be written.

‘Shall we sign?’ Jongdae asks, looking over at them. Zitao nods, pulling a knife from his sleeve in a flick of his wrist. He cuts open his thumb and smears his blood over both copies, offering the blade to Luhan.

Luhan makes a face so Jongdae rolls his eyes, offers up his sleeve for Luhan to wipe the blade clean of blood.

‘Thanks,’ says Luhan, almost grudging, and imitates Zitao’s efficiency, leaving his blood on the treaties. Jongdae takes the blade back and wipes it again, almost laughing at the thought that _him_ \- some bastard child in the middle of Shu - had ended up _here_ , with a Crown prince and an Emperor’s blood on his clothes.

Minseok produces the brushes and ink for them to sign their names, and then Yixing does the same, in her role of witness. After a pause, Yixing looks at Jongdae, hand outstretched: ‘I want to sign in blood as well.’

Jongdae’s too surprised to refuse, giving her the knife. Yixing doesn’t even flinch when she cuts open her skin and lets her blood drip and smear on the paper. Once both copies are signed and dried, Jongdae carefully rolls up one of them and tucks it into his robes against his chest. The Wei and Shu were now one kingdom, no matter what some upstart on the Wei throne thought.

‘Now what?’ Minseok asks, looking at the three of them.

Jongdae gives the knife back to Zitao and watches as Zitao grins, flicking the knife up in the air so the lamplight gleams off it. The knife lands with a thud, blade embedded in the wood of the table, and Zitao leans forward to wrap his fingers around the handle, wrenching it out with a quick motion. ‘Now,’ he says, eyes bright, excited, ‘I take back my throne.’

-

They ride hard from Wuhan to Luoyang, exhausting their horses so Zitao buys new steeds at almost every town they pass, leaving the old ones behind in exchange. It means that the ten day trip cuts down to just a week, the mountainous regions of Shu sinking to the west as they follow the trail through the familiar dips and valleys of Wei. At the border, the guards don’t know what to do for a moment, struck by the sight of their crown prince flashing his court seal as if his armour isn’t proof enough.

Throughout the journey, Jongdae rides with Yixing seated behind him, her arms tight around his waist as the wind whips past their cheeks. He can feel anticipation build in his chest with each passing day, knowing they were approaching the walls of Luoyang soon, to face a court of traitors so he can watch Zitao ascend to his rightful position on the throne.

He wants it so badly he can barely think coherently as to what to do. When Zitao asks him one night what to do with those that initiated the coup, all Jongdae manages is, ‘kill them,’ before snapping his jaw shut, surprising at his own bloodthirst for a moment. Thankfully, Zitao doesn’t take the suggestion seriously, waits patiently for Jongdae to wrangle up something at least half-reasonable - ‘a trial might be best’ - before remarking that Jongdae must be tired lately.

The excitement means that the journey feels both shorter and faster than Jongdae expects. He savours the closeness he gets from Zitao - especially when they sleep, with Zitao curled around him, warm and sweet when he snuffles kisses into Jongdae’s hair. After all, once they reached Luoyang, Jongdae would have to share him with the rest of the court, the rest of the kingdom. This was his time to be greedy, take what he could, so that Zitao wouldn’t forget where he belongs.

Yixing watches him sometimes, her gaze lingering, and he wonders if she sees Junmian in him - sinking his claws into Zitao so that when he ascends, it will truly be Jongdae who rules from behind the curtain.

He confronts her about it one night while Zitao is busy sparring with his soldiers. Yixing shrugs. ‘Do you blame me? You, Junmian, Minshuo…’

‘I’m not interested in ruling a kingdom,’ he says after a moment. ‘I just want to rule over him.’

‘How convenient that he comes with a kingdom attached to his name,’ she points out.

Jongdae rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. So there’s a thrill in having a powerful person underneath you.’

Yixing laughs, quiets after a moment. ‘I believe you.’ Her expression turns contemplative now. ‘I don’t think Junmian is doing what she is over maliciousness or greed. She’s much too determined and composed.’

‘You got that sense too?’

She nods. ‘It’s more like… she believes she knows what is best. If the coup d’état is because of her influence - and I’m sure it is - then she must think it’s the best and only way to achieve peace and a unified kingdom.’

‘By taking the warmongering prince off the throne entirely,’ says Jongdae, leaning into the fire with a sigh. ‘Politics need money and the Wu court has always been the richest from its open ports. I’m guessing the coup was funded by Junmyeon and Yifan - especially when you tie in the fact that Sehun’s family moved out of Luoyang during the inception of the war.’

‘Yes, it was an attack on two sides,’ says Yixing. ‘Send Junmian to the Wu court, and leave Shixun in Wei to take the throne after the Shu kingdom was framed for an assassination during the peace talks.’ She pauses. ‘Had the framing worked, Luhan would have been forced to abdicate the throne or even be executed for such a plan. With Shu missing its most powerful figure and recovering from a war, it would be an easy target.’

‘Fuck,’ says Jongdae, feeling himself laugh under his breath. ‘She’s smart, isn’t she?’

‘I almost think you’re having fun because of it.’ Yixing eyes him knowingly before shaking her head in disbelief. ‘If you hadn’t been kidnapped that day, Zitao would have gone to the Wei court with a traitorous advisor instead of you.’

‘You’re flattering me,’ he drawls, but feels pleased nonetheless. ‘So she never counted on me. Now I _have_ to beat her plans.’

-

Luoyang is a blessed sight after travelling for so long. Privately, Jongdae thinks many of the larger cities eventually coalesce into the same sort of sight - market stalls and homes and inns and restaurants and whatever else all crushed together with narrow lanes that were covered in slush from the melted snow, eventually opening up near the centre to the Wei imperial palace with its proud banner of a tiger, its house colours black and gold.

The city guards let Zitao through without question, bowing low for their prince’s return, but the palace guards are a different story.

‘We are under orders to keep you here until the Crown prince allows you entry,’ says the soldier in charge.

Zitao sits regal and imposing upon his horse, dressed in his armour with his sword hanging heavy on his hip. His retinue gather around him, armed as well, and a tension ripples through the palace guards, putting them on edge.

‘We won’t force you then,’ says Zitao eventually, voice cool. ‘But do tell the _prince_ that I’ve returned victorious.’

The soldier nods and walks to one of his fellows, who disappears into the palace courtyard with the message.

Jongdae feels Yixing tighten her grip around his waist and squeezes her hand in reassurance. Not even this puppet-prince would have the gall to refuse entry to Yifan’s own Empress.

They wait at the closed gates for only a few moments before the soldier returns. ‘The prince permits your entry.’ The imperial guards bow as the soldier says, ‘welcome home, Commander.’

‘Thank you,’ is all the acknowledgement they receive as Zitao nudges his steed forward, walking into the courtyard of the palace. Jongdae can’t help but glance upwards at the empty terraces of the upper floors, remembering himself standing there when Zitao had come home from the war. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Zitao’s guards are allowed back in their old quarters to rest and wash up while Zitao, Jongdae, and now Yixing are relocated to one of the guest wings of the manor.

‘I would like to see the Crown prince immediately,’ says Zitao, hand resting casually over the hilt of his sword as he speaks to one of the guards at the entryway to the main court. Even unwashed and exhausted, Zitao cuts an imposing figure as he draws himself up straight, slips into the familiar skin of _power_ that he hadn’t been allowed to wear in the weeks he spent as a diplomat.

Jongdae stands next to Yixing, hoping they don’t seem that filthy from the road, but it would be more surprising that way. Better to have Yixing looking roughed up as an unwilling hostage the cold, bloodthirsty war prince rather than the willing ally she had become over the past weeks of travelling together.

Finally, the doors slide open to reveal a wide room identical to the one in the Wu palace, with the advisors seated on the floor on either side of a long straight path leading to the raised dais where Sehun sat, his face pretty but much too young, too soft to be anything other than a puppet.

Zitao grabs Yixing by the upper arm and pulls her forward with him as he strides forward. Yixing makes a pained noise of surprise but she can’t get away, her expression panicked as she glances over the sea of faces watching her be humiliating by the Commander. Upon the dias, Sehun visibly pales, leaning forward in concern as Zitao strides right up to the bottom steps, finally letting go of Yixing.

‘ _Prince_ ,’ he sneers in greeting, bowing. Yixing smoothes out her robes and bows as well, trying to keep her composure now that she was released. Jongdae remains a few steps behind them both, playing the non-descript advisor, as he sweeps his gaze over the advisors, taking in the faces of all the traitors in Zitao’s court.

‘Commander,’ starts Sehun before clearing his throat, trying again, his voice clearer now ‘Commander Zitao.’

‘I have returned from Wu victorious.’ He reaches inside his armour before pulling out the peace treaty, unrolling it with a flick of his wrist to show the blood and signatures smeared at the bottom, clear as day. ‘I bring you the peace treaty between the kingdom of Wei and the kingdom of Shu, signed in blood.’ Next, he grabs Yixing’s arm again, makes her step forward. ‘And I bring revenge.’

Sehun flicks his gaze between Yixing and the treaty, clearly baffled. He hadn’t been prepared for this, realizes Jongdae. This wasn’t the finish that Junmyeon had predicted, the one that had been taught to Sehun, and it would spell the end of her machinations.

‘Revenge?’ Sehun asks finally.

‘An assassination attempt on my own personal advisor during a peace talk is akin to an attempt on me,’ says Zitao, voice clear and ringing, a note of warning underneath the words. ‘The Wu court wished to kill me, so I’ve brought you the Empress of Wu, to execute before the entire kingdom, as a show of strength.’

For a moment, Sehun is silent, incredulous, before he’s shaking his head. ‘There will be no _executing_ the Empress - !’

‘A political hostage then.’

‘She will be escorted back to her court - ’

‘Why?’ Zitao challenges, and his hand is still resting ever-so-lightly on the hilt of his sword. No mere guard nor foot soldier had dared asked Zitao to remove it.

Sehun stares back down at him, jaw clenched. ‘You dare challenge your prince?’

‘I’m only speaking as a military commander would.’

‘Then you’ll deliver her safely back to Jianye.’

‘I refuse.’ Gesturing to Yixing, Zitao continues, ‘Empress Yixing is a call-to-arms.’

‘A _call-to-arms_?’ Sehun is standing up now, feeling the pressure, trying not to break under it. The advisors stay silent - valuing their life over the risk of interrupting an argument between the two. ‘You would go to war again? Against Wu this time?’

‘A warning then.’

That seems to placate Sehun for a moment. ‘You’ve been able to bring the Empress all the way to Luoyang. That’s warning enough.’

‘I won’t hand her over to you.’

Sehun scowls. ‘You are under _my_ orders now.’

‘Then I commit treason,’ says Zitao simply, eyes glittering, challenging. ‘Execute me instead.’

The silence that follows crackles with tension, has everyone frozen in place, as they watch Sehun try to formulate a reply, but there’s nothing to say.

‘Do it,’ says Zitao, mouth curving at the corners once he realizes he’s won. ‘Kill me, your military commander.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Then there’s only one choice, Shixun,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you Yixing, and you will step away from that throne.’

Sehun stands frozen, pinned down by his circumstances. None of the advisors meet his eyes when he looks at them for help and Zitao’s threat hangs like a blade over Sehun’s neck, just waiting to swing should he make the wrong move.

‘Abdicate,’ says Zitao quietly, thumb pushing at the hilt of his sword so that a slice of blade slides out of the sheathe. ‘Or I will bring my soldiers - the same soldiers who conquered an entire kingdom - here, and I will take back what’s mine by blood.’

‘Would you really kill me?’ Sehun looks at him, a pained expression painted over his face.

‘No,’ he replies. ‘But you know who will if you go back to them for help.’

Sehun shuts his eyes, squeezing them for a moment as if to steel himself, before blinking them back open, holding Zitao’s gaze.

Everyone watches as he comes down the steps from the top of the dias to face Zitao, both of them of equal height, but Zitao sharp and deadly where Sehun seemed soft and delicate.

With a shuddering breath, Sehun kneels, and Zitao lets go of his sword hilt, letting the blade slide back into its sheath with a final click. ‘Rise, Wu Shixun, and greet me properly.’

Sehun stands and bows. ‘Welcome home, Prince Zitao.’

-

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed~!!
> 
>  _historical notes_ :  
> -based on the history of the three kingdoms (under heaven): wei, shu, & wu during 220-280 CE  
> -jianye = historical name for present-day nanjing  
> -li = 2 li is exactly 1 km; old unit of measurement before SI


End file.
